


Missing Me

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 5+1 Things, CW in Chapter Summary, Crossdressing, Espionage, Gen, Revolutionary War, Sexual Harassment, UK Bros - Freeform, only in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: Miss (verb):1. to fail to notice, hear, or understand2. to notice the loss or absence of; to feel regret or sadness at no longer being able to enjoy the presence ofAlfred quickly realizes that his family's uncannily good at both of them.(Or rather, 5 times Alfred was able to hide from his family right under their noses, and the one time they caught him)
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), America & UK Brothers (Hetalia)
Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/772014
Comments: 31
Kudos: 162





	1. The First Time: Versaille, France (Winter 1777-78)

The door shut firmly behind him and he sighed as the sounds of the orchestra and the loud, echoing hush of people congregating and conversing finally faded away. He sighed, the fake smile fading from his lips as he retreated to the settee of the blissfully unoccupied room, staring longingly into the warmth of the fire.

 _This,_ he reflected sourly, surrounded by lavish wealth, gilded walls, and miles of lace and crinoline tucked around him, _had to be its own special kind of torture._

He sighed, leaning back against the soft upholstery, soaking in the warmth through the layers of heavy silks. The palace was well lit, undoubtedly, with fireplaces ablaze aplenty to keep the chill away from the main hall, packed with people. But in the hallways, and the empty rooms, the chill of the French winter made itself known. Nevertheless, he was far better off than most of his people.

Oh, how he hated to be away from them. Never mind that George had all but bundled him off to Europe himself, determined beyond reason to see Alfred safely away from the continent. Especially now, when his winters were harsh and exacting on those unprepared for their ruthlessness. His men didn’t have equipment, they didn’t have food or resources, and they were stranded in midwinter down in Valley Forge, and he could do nothing. While his troops suffered thousands of miles away, he paraded amongst the gold-stained halls of Versailles draped in silks and luxury he could ill afford, all in the effort to determine whether or not France would ally with them…and how soon the British would realize. 

He wasn’t unintelligent; he _knew_ that England was well aware he’d left the states. The man had left no rocks unturned in his all-encompassing search through the states, desperate and fiercely determined to unmask and capture him. And England - the British Empire - was not a foolish man, nor an impractical one, no. No, the British Empire was ruthlessly pragmatic, even _if_ he was incredibly illogical when it came to the only son he’d ever sired. He would know that if America wasn’t in the colonies, he was either on the sea, or he was seeking allies.

And all signs the former colonies had given out indicated that France was the first stop for business.

Which is why he hadn’t been at all surprised to catch a glimpse of the piercing green and hazel eyes on their party crashers. They’d caused quite a stir earlier in the gala, when the two nations had descended with a small retinue of their own. It had been the first time Francis’s charming smile had faded all night - a feat of its own when the man was in his element, flitting about and charming the aristocracy. They’d had a minor argument off to the side of the main hall - although, not discrete enough that half the gala wasn’t tittering about it, gossip flying around at warp speed - but they’d come back in, Arthur looking satisfied, Francis grouchy, and Rhys just looking exasperated.

Par for the course, Alfred supposed.

At the very least, though, it had validated the smaller disagreement he and Francis had earlier this morning, where he’d insisted on attending tonight in disguise, just in case. Francis had argued against the necessity, almost offended that Alfred couldn’t trust his own security. But given that Arthur still had the right to drag him off if he ever found him, wherever he might be… well, he sure hoped Francis realized how lucky they were right now. The only evidence that even _hinted_ at Alfred’s presence in Versailles that night was the two American diplomats and their tiny entourage wining and dining at France’s insistence.

Even so, Arthur was not stupid. The elder man _knew_ he was here. Alfred had no doubt of that.

The door swung open abruptly, startling him out of his contemplations. He looked up, and nearly had a heart attack.

The very man he’d been hoping to avoid stepped into the room, cunning green eyes scanning and dismissing the wealth of luxury around them, until they landed on the still form of a visibly startled young _lady_.

God _please_ let that be what he was seeing.

There was a moment’s pause, as they both stared at each other, and then the British Empire inclined his head to the younger, “ _Désolé mademoiselle_ ,” he said, tone apologetic, even as cunning eyes scanned layers of luxurious silk and crinoline petticoats and judged him harmless, “ _I apologize for my abrupt entrance. I hope I wasn’t disturbing you._ ”

Alfred stood, face resettling into a startled smile, “ _Of course not_ ,” he said in the flawless French that Francis had taught him himself, “ _I was simply taking some comfort of the fireplace while my friends went to fetch their escorts_.”

“ _Ah_ ,” the other nation said, not a single hint of the English lilt Alfred was so familiar with accenting the French, “ _Though it does seem a bit early in the fête to be turning in for the evening…,”_ he trailed off, as if waiting for an explanation.

Instead, Alfred smiled frigidly, drawing all the ways to be polite and insulting his father had taught him, _“I’m not sure how that is any of your business, monsieur,_ ” he asserted tartly.

A brow hiked up, and Arthur inclined his head, _“Of course not,”_ he drawled, moving to hold open the door for the young nation-to-be, who held his head high, chin up, as he glided out of the room, skirts swishing against the marble floor, “ _bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”_

 _“And to yourself, monsieur_ ,” he replied, walking proudly down the hallway, ignoring the green eyes staring at him before the door slid shut on them. He slid the fan from his sash and let it spread, covering the lower half of his expression as he made his way to the valet. It _was_ about time he should head back if he wanted to make it before Ben and John did. Not to mention Francis was sure to join them, and he wanted to make it _very_ clear how close it had been tonight.

 _“Mademoiselle?”_ the valet inquired politely.

 _“If you could have my coachman, Jean-Luc André, fetch my carriage,”_ he said firmly, watching the valet nod, _“Inform him I will be waiting in the main hall, and to have someone fetch me upon his arrival.”_

_“Of course, mademoiselle.”_

He retreated back into the main hall, as - regardless of what he’d said to Arthur - it was too early to risk being missed from the ball. _Jean-Luc_ , as she’d asked to be called tonight, would understand and linger just long enough before going in to fetch him.

Of course, he’d returned just in time to catch sight of Arthur and Francis getting ready to go at it. _Of course_ he did.

He slunk along the wall, smiling demurely over the lace frills on his fan at anyone who glanced over at him. He positioned himself in clear view of the entrance hall, so he might see his coachman when she came to collect him, and also get a clear view of Arthur and Francis, who were, as usual, arguing loudly. Uncle Rhys, it seemed, had no interest in playing peacekeeper today, and had abandoned the pair to their chaos.

He reclined against the wall, as much as his dress allowed for such things, and watched the pair of them, idly calculating the risks of walking past them when they were so close to the entrance, and if they’d recognize him with a second look. He could see Ben flirting with several enchanted and entertained noblewomen near the chaos, keeping one eye on the French nation and one on poor John Adams, who was not quite as amused by the whole situation as Ben.

As the fight began to truly escalate - to the point where it would likely devolve into violence if someone didn’t stop their insanity - a dark haired young man dressed in the typical attire of a coachman appeared and lingered in the entryway. He didn’t dare move too far into the main hall, as he’d earn the instant scorn of the elite who’d noted his presence idly, but was present enough that Alfred caught sight of him instantly.

Or rather, caught sight of _her_.

Jean-Luc André was, after all, the French cover of a mischievous young woman by the name of Kassidy Trevor. Alfred had recruited the young woman he’d found cross-dressing in the militia into his personal spying endeavors, much to her delight. She was fantastic company with a snarky personality and the perfect partner for their conspiracy. He straightened from his delicate slump against the wall and made his way discretely towards the entrance. He daren’t rush, of course, but by the time he made it to Kassidy, it didn’t matter anyways.

Arthur and Francis had _finally_ broken out into a fist fight, and, naturally, every eye was on them.

Except, it seemed, for one.

**.**

Rhys stood off to the side, wallflowering as he usually did during balls and galas, and desperately trying to ignore the sight of his brother and Francis building into another one of their usual fights. Whether it was purely verbal, or devolved into actual violence, Rhys did not care to know at the moment. He’d have to do damage control regardless.

Rhys, it seemed, was also not alone in his wallflowering. His eyes caught on a young noblewoman - unaccompanied for the moment, which struck him as odd - lingering against a wall nearby. Unlike Rhys, however, she was staring at the growing argument, an odd edge of calculation in blue eyes.

His intuition twitched.

Her fan was held delicately in front of her face, just low enough to allow her to offer any newcomer a polite, demure smile, but high enough to ward off any company and conceal the edge in her smile from most observers.

But then again, Rhys wasn’t _most_.

Arthur and Francis’s argument picked up steam, and the young noblewoman allowed her shoulders to relax her almost regal bearing and reclined backwards, confident that no one was watching with the spectacle drawing all eyes forwards. Her hair, even restrained in a crowning braid around her head, swayed with the movement, a few riotous curls freeing themselves from the confining embrace of the updo. Her lips curled into a familiar, exasperated smile as she surveyed the scene, and for a single, impossible moment, Rhys saw Alfred’s image superimposed on her own.

He blinked, and the moment was gone. The young woman’s crown of hair was a burnished bronze, and while her eyes were terrifyingly similar to his nephews, they appeared a few shades off - although that could’ve been the lighting. And, of course, the most stark difference was that this was a French noble _woman_ , who blended well enough with the court that none approached her or even singled her out as odd. As much as his nephew had taken the court lessons with his brother and fellow colonies, it was rare that Alfred really _followed_ them, even when he’d still been loyal.

His intuition twitched.

Even as a child, Alfred had _hated_ balls.

But...his eyes followed the young woman as she used the escalating situation to escape the hall, swept away by her coachman as soon as she got close enough to the entrance hall.

His intuition _wrenched_.

This required some attention.

And ear-splitting screech wrenched through his contemplations as Arthur and Francis tumbled into a standing candelabra and one of the draperies caught on fire, sending a hoard of screeching nobles out every possible hallway exit and snapping the two nations out of their fury. A nearby servant took up a bowl of water and put out the draperies with nary a second thought.

A disgruntled Arthur came up to him not ten minutes later, just as the nobles began creeping back into the main hall, seeing as the fire was out, and resuming their merriment. No one would notice the young lady who’d gone home, his mind hummed consideringly.

“Must you and Francis _always_ make a scene of yourselves?” he asked, resigned.

“Oh, do be quiet, Rhys,” his irate little brother hissed. Not unfamiliar with his brother’s foul moods, he simply sighed. “The frog would tell me nothing about Alfred.”

 _And you expected him to?_ Rhys wondered, a little of his own irritation boiling up. True, the Frenchman might’ve bragged about his knowledge, but he would’ve never given up an ally like that. Especially not one as at risk as Alfred, or one so close to his heart. He knew Francis considered Alfred one of his own, just as Arthur considered Matthew the same. His eyes scanned the hall and caught on an interesting knot of people and an eyebrow rose.

“Perhaps,” he drawled, “it was not Francis you should’ve been asking.” He nodded towards the pair of American diplomats discussing something in low tones with Francis, one of them looking around, as if to confirm something, before turning back and nodding.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed to slits and he almost snarled as the three of them made their way into the hallway.

“Don’t,” Rhys warned sternly, in an old voice that halted his brother immediately, “it will only rile all of you, and you will not learn anything.”

“So what do you suggest, Rhys?” his brother growled, but restrained himself from following the trio with anything but his eyes.

“Have someone follow them once they leave,” he suggested quietly, “and leave them be for a day or two. Keep a watch. Surprise them once their paranoia wears off.”

“Of course,” Arthur hummed, eyes gleaming, “we’ll keep watch on the harbor as well, just to ensure they don’t leave before their welcome’s worn out.”

Rhys hummed in agreement, not saying another word.

A flash of intuition dragged his memory back to that odd, regal young noblewoman, and the image of Alfred he’d superimposed over her, and he frowned.

**.**

“You sent the message to Ben, right?” Alfred asked, a thoughtful frown on his face as he glanced over his shoulder at the magnificent palace fading into the background the further away they got.

“Of course, boss,” his aide chirped cheerfully, “We’ll head off to the secondary location, where they’ll meet up with us tomorrow morning. Don’t want any sneaky redcoats catching up to us.”

“And the harbor?” he asked. No harm in double checking.

Kassidy grinned widely, hazel eyes gleaming as she tipped a mischievous wink his way, “We’ve got a French merchant flag and permission to use it, boss.”

Alfred smirked and reclined on the bench, crossing his legs under the massive weight of his dress. He might be overdoing it, he considered, but it was better to be overly cautious than not cautious enough, and caught. As Francis learned tonight.

 _Try and find me now_ , he dared.


	2. The Second: 54 Pearl Street, New York City (Spring, 1778)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred rules the roost, and heaven have mercy on those who try and put their hands on _his_ people. Alistair needs another drink.
> 
> CW: Some sexual harassment in the chapter, towards the end. Nothing graphic, but wanted to forewarn y'all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so this also has a bit of suspension of disbelief in terms of period typical behavior. I know that women typically don't act as badass as Alfred does, but honestly, I couldn't help it.
> 
> So...yeah, just enjoy.

Night had already fallen, he noted idly as he reappeared from the storeroom inventory check. Mary and Prue grinned and tossed him warm smiles as he rejoined them, eyeing the dark windows radiating the early spring chill with a tempered frown.

“It’s going to be a cold one tonight, luv,” Prue murmured as he passed her, “good thing you’re staying.”

He hummed in silent agreement. He’d long since sent Kassidy home in her disguise for that very reason. The proprietors of the bar, fielding increased customer demand from the redcoats, had decided to keep the bar open far later than they usually did on some nights. With permission, of course, from the generals currently in charge of the city. That had opened up the problem of the young barmaids and bartenders who worked the late night shifts being unable to travel home safely after curfew fell, even with the appropriate papers. Mrs. Campbell, the manager’s wife, had put her foot down insisting that the ladies who chose to work the late night shift be given a place to stay, resulting in the upper floors of the tavern being opened up for their use on the few evenings they stayed up past curfew.

It was early in the night, still. There were three of them at the bar counter, a young gentleman named Jacob who’d been helping keep the peace in the midst of a tavern filled with the inebriated and rowdy, and rebellious little Genevieve - with her pretty Arthurian name and absentminded Lord of a father who’d misplaced his princess of a daughter an ocean away from home - who flitted around the tables taking and filling orders and keeping an ear out for the latest gossip.

Mary and Prue occasionally roved around with Genevieve, delivering orders when the demand was out, but neither could quite keep up with her bouncy cheer. Alfred often remained behind the bar, as his skill in keeping the orders coming came in handy during the busiest parts of the evening.

Of course, his presence behind the bar also allowed him more leeway to do  _ other  _ things… such as keep an eye on his girls, and an ear out for trouble and gossip in equal measures.

Not that there was much trouble that Jacob couldn’t handle when Alfred was on shift. There were  _ rules  _ in the Tavern and most of the regulars knew full well the consequences of breaking them. Even the new crowd often were warned away, or were decent enough human beings to not necessitate Alfred’s intervention.

He would intervene, of course. If the girls were in trouble, of course he’d intervene.

Tonight, however, looked to be a good night. However cold it was outside, the fire was roaring and the mood in the tavern was warm and cheerful. There were a few drunks he knew he would be keeping an eye on over the course of the night, but the overall atmosphere was positive.

The bell over the tavern’s entrance chimed softly and Alfred glanced over idly to check, only to pause. Noting the red coat, the red  _ hair,  _ and the grumpy gray eyes, he let his thoughts wander elsewhere. Not letting the presence of his uncle phase him at all.

Uncle Alistair was a regular at the Tavern, after all. Alfred usually wasn’t in the front, or on shift when the older nation came around, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t seen him there. The first part of allaying suspicion was to make sure no one ever had a reason to suspect him. Eliza worked there, Alistair was a patron, and they’d never officially met before.

Alfred was in his element, and of all the ways he might be caught, this was  _ not  _ going to be one of them.

**.**

Alistair sighed, relaxing almost imperceptibly as he took the first sip of his drink. The pretty waitress - honey colored hair and hazel eyes who reminded him of Arthur - had smiled at him sympathetically when she’d read the exhaustion on his face as she’d brought out his order. He took it kindly, instead of just another note of how far off his game he was, and tried to relax. That was the whole point of his visits to the Tavern.

Well, one of them, at least.

He supposed he didn’t have to actively be collecting information today, he could perhaps take a day to just enjoy the atmosphere.

A particularly raucous drunk laughed, the sound of it high-pitched and sharply piercing, and his grip tightened around the glass.

Even if the atmosphere was not particularly enjoyable.

The piercing laugh came again, in tune with a spike of pain that drove through his temple, and this time he felt the glass give and bite into his palm as his grip tightened.

_ For fuck’s sake. _

The young waitress - “Gen,” she asserted with a smile - almost appeared at his side the moment the glass cracked, even though it hadn’t been loud enough to catch the attention of anyone not close by. She promptly whisked away the broken glass and assured him she’d bring a new one, on the house. She’d had no idea some of their glasses were so fragile - it must’ve been a bad one in the batch.

By the time he had a chance to  _ blink  _ she was already at the bar, chatting with the blue-eyed barmaid who’d been manning the bar counter as her co-workers roved around, making sure everyone was getting their orders. The barmaid was nodding to the young waitress, glancing over once to survey him, and then reached underneath the bar to procure another cup. He watched, oddly fascinated, as she poured and passed on the drink.

Blue eyes looked up and locked with his, studying him for an endless heartbeat of a moment, and then inclined slightly, and went back to mixing drinks for the others.

Alistair was struck with the oddest feeling of  _ familiarity.  _ One that he brushed off quickly as Gen returned, setting down his drink in front of him with a cheerful smile. It wasn’t unreasonable, his mind noted. He’d definitely seen her around here before. That was probably it.

This time, he was able to get half-way through savouring his whiskey before the drunks went at it again. The pair of them - the drunks, that was - started laughing and shouting at each other. One of them pushed at the other, and laughed as the other fell off the chair and almost into another table. Thankfully, this time they also got enough irate glances from the other pub goers for being a little  _ too  _ rowdy, and the doorman had to step in.

The doorman was a polite young man who’s kind face and gentle presence had surprised a lot of people when he bodily threw them out of the door. Of course, Alistair had only seen him do it the once - something about someone named Eliza being out sick - but it had provided plenty of entertainment for long-lasting enjoyment.

The doorman, kind as you please, tapped the still sitting drunk’s shoulder and said something - too quiet to spread in the tavern’s normally chatty atmosphere - to which the drunk laughed derisively. The doorman’s smile firmed up, and retorted something, which earned him a scoff.

At that, the young man smiled, and then pointedly let his eyes dart towards the bar, obvious enough that the pub-goer followed his line of sight and blanched. Once the drunk had turned his gaze back to the young doorman, he repeated whatever it was he’d been saying. The drunk nodded frantically and the young man  _ smiled  _ as he backed away to return to his post.

Alistair couldn’t blame the poor sod. It took a lot of steel in your spine to meet the barmaid’s icy blue gaze, especially when she glared like  _ that.  _

Now, Alistair wouldn’t say he was a  _ regular  _ here - he wasn’t here every day, or even every week like most of the regulars were - but he was definitely in and out of the Tavern often enough to be familiar with its workings. Some of which, he’d realized early on, were fairly unique to the Tavern itself.

See, the special thing about the Tavern was its staff. It wasn’t odd to see young women taking on the rolls of barmaids and waitresses. And the young man’s clear position as a doorman, or security guard of sorts was hardly a surprise. But the true singularity was in the Tavern’s  _ hierarchy.  _

He didn’t usually come in on the evenings she frequented. He’d occasionally seen her working back in the kitchen. But he’d seen her holding court at the bar often enough that Alistair would put money down on the surety that, despite the young man’s supervisory role, it was the young barmaid with the icy blue glare that ruled the roost. A surety that was only strengthened by the way the regulars responded to her presence with a clear level of respect. Astonishing enough, for the types of men that frequented this bar, downright unbelievable when considering they directed that wary respect to a young, unmarried  _ woman.  _

The incident with the drunks was only further proof. Even so, he’d never been able to see his assumptions validated by the dynamic pair.

He didn’t realize that he’d get his proof that night.

One thing Alistair had always liked about this particular tavern - outside of its loyalist safe haven and comforting atmosphere - was that indecent behavior,  _ especially  _ around women, was simply not tolerated. Oh, there was leeway in what they considered indecent - it was a tavern, after all - but any kind of leering, groping, or harassment of the womenfolk who ran the tavern was simply unacceptable. Those who worked in the tavern enforced that rule with an iron first. The young doorman often offered the first warnings and escorted those who proved too ill-mannered and disrespectful to the door.

Those who outright crossed the line, well...Alistair hadn’t yet seen it happen, even with all the time he’d spent in the tavern. But he had the distinct impression it wasn’t the young man who  _ dealt  _ with them.

Even then, it wasn’t a common thing, to see a man so disregard the basic standard of decency the tavern requested of its patrons.

And yet...

“Sir,” the cheerful waitress tried again, angling herself away from the obnoxious leer directed her way, throwing glances towards the bar likely in hopes that one of her colleagues would notice her troubles, “if you would please -,”

Some people never learned.

Alistair’s eyes darkened the more persistent the man became, only letting the edge of his tension bleed off as one of the other roving waitresses sharply requested Gen’s presence, almost physically pulling her away from the leering bastard who wouldn’t let her leave. He took the next glass of whiskey she set in front of him with a nod, and hoped that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

“Now wher’re you goin’ pretty thing?” the man in question slurred as she swept by again, tending to other customers. She rolled her eyes, making to move away, “ ‘m not done talkin’ to ya.”

That’s when the man made the mistake of ignoring his companion’s increasingly pale visage and shaking head, and reached over the table to snag at the young lady’s arm and drag her down.

She went down with a yelp, almost falling onto the drunken man’s lap, actually dropping the serving tray she’d been carrying in one hand with the drinks crashing to the ground in a cacophonous clatter. Alistair only got a glimpse of the young woman’s stunned expression and the lecher’s smugly pleased one before a voice rang out.

“Let go of her.”

The tavern went dead silent.

The young man, who’d been moving towards them, likely trying to get between the two, promptly took several large steps away from the pair and positioned himself against the wall next to the tavern’s entrance.

_ Getting out of range,  _ his mind whispered, intrigued even with the boiling anger that came when people mistreated women held at bay. His hands unclenched around the arms of his chair, where he’d been getting ready to push himself up to go rip into the ol’ lecher.

It looked like he wouldn’t be needed.

Stepping down from tending to the bar was the pretty blue-eyed barmaid, one of the roving waitresses half a step behind her. Her eyes were dark chips of ice, and just as cold. Her smile was a lovely, dangerous thing, framed by loose curls of bronze hair that had escaped her wild braid. For a split second, her eyes met Alistair’s.

_ I’ve got this.  _

An eyebrow hiked up, and he leaned forwards as fury drained, swiftly replaced with curiosity.  _ This would be interesting.  _

“Sir,” the young barmaid said, tone terrifyingly even, “please release my coworker.”

The man, who’d been too focused on looking smugly at the young waitress to notice the approach of the barmaid, turned to look at her and only snorted in response. He turned away dismissively, ignoring how the already silent tavern had gone completely still at his response.

“Sir,” she said, and Alistair wondered how she managed to convey  _ ‘you are the very scum of the earth and I will enjoy crushing you under my boot’  _ in one word, “this is your last warning. Please let go of my coworker.”

The drunken lout sneered at her, “I c’n do whatev’r I please,” he scoffed, scorn filling his tone, “‘ve had a bloody long day, came to relax, ’nd now ‘m gettin’ bossed about by some random bird,” half the tavern paled, and one particularly white fellow crossed himself. The man leaned forwards, smirking nastily at the barmaid as the young waitress he’d caught ahold of shrunk away, “Why don’ you  _ make  _ me?” Then, he laughed, as if enjoying the end of some magnificent joke.

The barmaid  _ smiled,  _ half the tavern shuddered, and Alistair was damn well certain that the lout wasn’t going to be laughing for long.

He was right.

In a blur of motion even  _ he  _ almost didn’t catch, the barmaid had hiked up her skirt enough to let a booted foot come up and land flat against the seat of the lout’s chair. With a forceful push, she sent the chair - and the lout - skidding feet away, the shriek causing most of the tavern-goers to wince, and even a few to clasp their hands over their ears at the painful sound. In another fluid motion, her arm had lashed out and locked around her coworker’s, and as the drunk went sprawling, she yanked the waitress up and over to her.

The young woman who’d been standing half-a-step behind the barmaid spun into motion in the half-second after the action had happened. She quickly took the shaken young waitress under her wing and ushered her away, slipping behind the bar and vanishing into the back within seconds.

The barmaid was still standing in the middle of the tavern, poised and pristine as if she hadn’t moved at all, while the lout attempted to recover. Her lips curled down into a frown as she studied the lout and a handful of others who - while they hadn’t been egging him on - hadn’t exactly been against his behavior.

She missed  _ nothing. _

“It seems like  _ some  _ of you,” her pointed, piercing ice blue gaze swept across the bar, causing some men in particular to cringe away from the accusing gaze, “don’t remember your manners. If you can’t remember to be  _ civilized  _ human beings,” she said sharply, “then you will not be permitted in this tavern.”

The man who’d been the focus of this growing drama only growled, standing unsteadily due to his intoxication, and said, “An’ wha’s a bitch like you gonna do about it?”

Her smile was a fearsome thing, sharp and lethal, nothing delicate and demure about her, “Well,” she drawled lazily, “since you  _ asked.”  _

A hand lashed out, quick as a whip, and snagged the man’s left ear in a wrenching grip and  _ yanked. _ The man yelped, almost curling into himself as the pain hit him.

The young barmaid straightened to her full height, accented only slightly by the small heel of her working boots, pulling the other man closer as she surveyed him with a delicate frown. He’d started swearing at her now.

“Now, now,” she said, voice icily amused, “don’t be wroth. You’ve proven yourself to be ill-mannered, immature and obtuse. You need a time out, and unfortunately for you, we’re quite adept at providing those.”

Alistair stared, because for a moment it had been like he’d seen his youngest brother grabbing his wayward colonies by their ears and dragging them back to the manor, protests and pained groans filling the air as they went by. But then he blinked, and it was just the same pretty young barmaid and her icy glare nonchalantly dragging the drunken lout towards the exit, where the young man positioned there had swung the door open just as she shoved the drunk forwards.

The man wobbled as his ear was abruptly released, dizzy, until he was gripping the door frame trying to regain some sort of stability. And that’s when Alistair realized what was going to happen before it did.

A wicked smile curved the edge of the young lass’s lips as she leaned forwards, planting her dominant foot against the floor and leaned forwards. In the same motion, a booted foot swung out and struck  _ gold,  _ landing a kick with a truly fearsome amount of force against the man’s rear end. It sent him flying in an almost parabolic arc, shrieking indecently as he flew, and then crashed, into the hard cobblestone.

There was a smirk on her face as she propped one hand on her hip and leaned out the Tavern door to shout into the street, “And don’t you come back until you’ve grown some manners!” Shutting the door on the poor lout being snickered at and whispered about out in the street, before turning back to the slowly recovering pub goers. “Anyone else have a problem?” The frantic headshakes were her answer. Satisfied, she tossed her braid over her shoulder before making her way back behind the bar.

Alistair watched as she was greeted by warm smiles and giggles from her fellow employees. Watched as she cast her gaze over the tavern of the restless and rowdy and dared them to step out of line.

And then, he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and smirked. Now, _ that _ was one interesting young woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 54 Pearl Street, New York City, NY is also known as the Fraunces Tavern, and it was actually a tavern built in 1719, and popular amongst British Loyalists during the Revolutionary War. It's still standing today (and still a tavern), but it also has an adjacent museum due to it's historical importance. I'm going to include a link to the museum website, so if y'all are interested, please do check it out!
> 
> [Fraunces Tavern History](https://www.frauncestavernmuseum.org/history)
> 
> Come bug me with questions and comments on tumblr at @emeraldsage98!


	3. The Third: Great Square, New York City (Summer, 1778)

“Stop tugging at the pleats,” he said, amusement thick in his voice as he tossed his head over the shoulder to look at his companion, who pouted at him.

“It’s a lot less poofy,” she mused, consideringly, glancing down at the much simpler dress than the one she usually donned. “Though I do like the fruit pattern.”

Alfred, who was wearing a simpler, block colored frock with no pattern or frills, smirked, “I did think you would.” That’s why he’d picked that bolt of fabric when she’d given him some clothes money for this field trip. She’d wanted to make her own dress by hand, for a change, but had no idea what to look for to blend in. His eyes darted to the side, and his smirk widened, “And it looks like you’re not the only one who likes it.”

She locked elbows with him - the picture of two friends out and about - and tossed her head, throwing her ginger braid over her shoulder as she casually glanced to the side.

Margaret “Peggy” Ward hummed, smiling coyly at the soldier who’d been glancing her way, charmed, “He’s handsome,” she murmured, “but I think his coat’s a little too _red_ for my tastes, Eliza.”

Alfred smirked deviously, eyeing the soldier, who’d noticed them both watching him and flushed, “I dunno, darling,” he mused, “I think it’s the perfect pick me up for the afternoon. What do you say?”

Peggy grinned, and tugged him along with her as they made their way through the crowded market square, “Playing with some soldier boys? Whyever not?”

**.**

He growled as he dragged a complaining Reilley along with him. He didn’t want to be doing this - he had absolutely no patience, and even less sympathy for this kind of task - but when his little brat of a brother was in _that_ kind of a mood, you didn’t tell him no. So now, Alistair was stuck dragging disobedient soldiers late from their shore leave.

There were so many other things he could be doing. Him, Reilley, even Rhys - though his elder brother was actually doing a solid job of calming their brat of a younger brother - they could be doing so much in other parts of the colonies. But Arthur kept lingering in New York, as if something was holding him there...and the lack of information on Alfred, after they’d missed him in Versailles nearly a year ago, well. Arthur was in a _mood,_ and they all had to suffer for it.

He caught a gleam of sunlight against the fresh red coat of a uniformed soldier and felt his mood sour as he noticed one of the soldiers he was supposed to drag in posing cockily in front of a pair of admiring ladies.

Lord help him in dealing with cocky soldiers in front of a pair of giggling girls.

Who...his eyes narrowed as one of the girls smiled slyly while the other one clasped her hands and leaned closer, supposedly entranced, might not be giggling for the reason he’d thought. Not when they kept exchanging amused looks whenever the soldier looked away.

Wait a tic, he paused as he got closer, he recognized that one. The taller of the pair, with familiar long bronze hair bundled into its wild braid, and bright blue eyes. That same smirk on her face as when she’d single handedly kicked out a man who’d been harassing one of the girls at the bar. It was one of the young barmaids from the Tavern, the one who’d kicked out the rowdy lecher, he remembered. And from what else he’d remembered of her, she certainly wasn’t the type to pander or fawn over _anyone_ , let alone an ego-inflated soldier who was getting too big for his britches.

They weren’t interested in the wayward soldier, he realized, a sense of amusement dawning, they were playing on his arrogance and making _fun_ of him. Canny brats.

Well, that just made it all the easier to break them up.

“Soldier!” he barked as he neared their corner, causing them, along with several others around them, to jump. He caught some of the other soldiers he’d come to wrestle back on the other side of the square freeze and started sneaking off towards the camp. The soldier in front of him caught sight of the rank bars on his shoulder and paled at the sight of his superior officer’s scowl.

“S-sir,” he stuttered, offering a salute when he came closer. The ladies backed away a bit, to make room for him in their crowded little aside, and watched, intrigued. The shorter of the pair lifted a gloved hand to her mouth to conceal the curl of a smile catching on the corner, while the young barmaid didn’t even bother as her eyebrow hitched up and she crossed her arms to watch the show.

“You’re late from your leave,” he growled, watching the soldier go even whiter, “by over an _hour_. Do you have any excuse for this behavior?”

The white teenager in front of him swallowed as the two young ladies exchanged glances. “Sir, I…,” he glanced at the watching ladies, and back to Alistair, which was enough explanation as to what he’d been doing, “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn straight it better not,” he retorted. He glanced back and saw his brother waving cheerfully with several of the others who’d tried to sneak off while he’d confronted this particular brat. “Back to camp,” he barked, and watched the soldier jump, salute, and then bolt towards where Reilley was waiting.

“Ladies,” he huffed, turning to the two teenagers still watching him, watching as they dipped into polite curtseys. “You’ve quite had your fun I can imagine. Please don’t impede the work of our soldiers.”

The ginger clasped her hands together, face apologetic, “I’m _so_ sorry, officer,” she said, “I didn’t realize that he wasn’t off duty. We’re so used to soldiers hanging around the square during their breaks, I had no _idea_ ….” As she babbled apologies, her taller friend laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, blue eyes comforting and oddly familiar all the same.

“We apologize, sir,” she asserted, cutting through her friend’s babble, “It shan’t happen again.”

“Good,” he said gruffly, “then off you get,” before walking away from the pair.

He got up to his brother, who’d collected a good three or four of their missing bunch, and huffed. “You go round up the rest of the brats,” he growled, “while I take this sorry lot back to camp for Arthur.” He took an improper amount of pleasure in the way they paled. Everyone, it seemed, knew about his brother’s towering temper.

“Such a good brother, Alys,” the Irishman chirped, “don’t be too hard on them. They’ll get enough of a scalding from the _Admiral_.”

Alistair scoffed, and headed down to the quay where the nearest camp was stationed. Like he had the patience for that kind of restraint.

**.**

Alistair was such a good brother, the Irishman hummed to himself in amusement, considering the situation. He’d been so full of ire at being relegated to something like this that he hadn’t noticed Reilley had already sent a handful of their misbehaving soldiers scuttling back to camp. So when he took off with the handful Reilley had gathered, he hadn’t realized he was giving the Irishman some blissful free time.

He’d realize once he got back to the ship and saw the rest of the boys cowering before Arthur’s wrath, but by then, Reilley would have some time to himself to find some good music and good company to freshen up his week. He reversed his coat, trusting his addition of a hand stitched layer of brown cloth to help him blend in far easier, even if it did make the coat obscenely warm during the New York summer.

He matched the pace of the crowd, humming cheerfully, as they slipped into the great square filled with storefronts and stalls of merchants, traders, butchers and bakers dealing their goods to a churning mass of New Yorkers. His ears caught on the soft strains of someone singing a folk tune - a bard charming an audience nearby - and moved in that direction another voice caught his ear, and he turned.

“ - was so much _fun_ , Eliza!” he heard a young woman with ginger hair giggle, flipping the braid off of her shoulder. Her taller, brunette companion smirked as they walked at a slow, leisurely pace that made it easy to catch up to.

“Didn’t I tell you that they were so easy to rile?” the brunette laughed, just as Reilley caught up with them, just a few feet away, “The younger, inexperienced ones, at least. They’re just like peacocks, ready to strut about in such a _display_ regardless of who’s watching.”

The ginger giggled again, “But what of the older ones?”

The brunette paused, “Hmm, tricky,” she mused, pausing to glance around, just as Reilley turned his head to feign interest in a peddler’s wares, “There are some good men in the ranks, and I’ve met a fair few at the Tavern. But there are just as many rowdy rascals in a crowd of men as there are gentlemen. It’s the same everywhere.”

The ginger sighed longingly, “I absolutely cannot believe how well traveled you are. Daddy refuses to let me go anywhere without him - or sometimes even with him! But I guess you go up to visit your mother often enough…,” she trailed off, wincing as her companion’s lips twisted into a sardonic frown.

The brunette snorted, “Mother’s up near Boston with her family,” she said derisively, “It’s all rebel talk with them, all the time. I go as little as I can, and the troops up there are far stricter besides. It’s no wonder her relationship with Father soured so quickly.”

It was then that the brunette turned, and they locked eyes. Calculating blue eyes pierced into his, registering his presence first, and then _recognition_ that took his breath away.

Bone deep recognition that pierced through any layers of disguise, any convenient excuse, which acknowledged that Reilley was _Reilley_ , not just another redcoat off duty. 

Blue eyes turned away, and Reilley sucked in a shaky breath. Because that recognition? That bone deep certainty of who he was staring at? It had gone both ways.

The only problem? Reilley _didn’t know who she was_. She was tall and calculating, and a good friend. She was a _loyal_ New Yorker with an established job, a family up in Boston she disagreed with, and a dislike of arrogance. Reilley knew this only from what he’d overheard and observed. She was a defined quantity.

And bone deep recognition or not, she absolutely couldn’t be _Alfred_ , no matter what his heart was telling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Building up the suspicion hehehe  
> Any questions or curiosities? Come find me at @emeraldsage98 on tumblr!


	4. The Fourth: Backstreets of Manhattan, After Curfew (Winter, 1778)

It was light laughter that caught his attention, as he patrolled the back streets of Manhattan in the early hours after curfew. Light laughter; airy, filled with gaiety and delight, as if the owner of such a laugh couldn’t be happier with life. It was an achingly familiar sound, though it was curious, especially given the hour and the mood of the city’s residents the longer the occupation went.

He rounded the corner, following the gentle sound, and caught a young man and a young woman, arm in arm, moving down the street proper, heading away from him. They were speaking softly to each other, but the young woman’s face was turned to her companion and the mirth on her face indicated it had been her laughter that had caught his attention.

He cleared his throat, and the two froze. They whirled around just as he stepped into the light, redcoat gleaming in the dark. The young man caught sight of the blood red gleam and swallowed, paling slightly. The young lady, on the other hand, seemed to have been made of sterner stuff, as her eyes only widened, and she stood straighter.

“You two are out past curfew,” he said, after a moment of letting the silence linger, heavy, between the three of them. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you there are consequences for such things.”

“My apologies,” the young woman scanned his rank bars, eyes widening even more, “Lieutenant Colonel,” she added, and his eyebrows rose, impressed and suspicious. When did women learn to read military ranks and insignias? “My friend was escorting me back home after a late shift at the Tavern. I was working the closing shift, and there were some... issues with the inventory that took too long to resolve, and pushed us past curfew.”

“The Tavern?” he asked, inviting her to clarify, deciding to focus on the young lady for the moment.

“Yes sir,” she said, “54 Pearl Street, the Fraunces Tavern sir.”

His eyebrows shot skywards. That was a very popular _loyalist_ tavern. The proprietor had patriot leanings, but had left its operation to his loyalist son-in-law after the occupation began, and it had become quite the trusted hub. Even Alistair frequented it from time to time to keep an eye on the information flow. Any loyalist could find a friendly face in there, but conversely, if a patriot managed to sneak in with a well placed act, they could find a treasure trove of valuable information.

Hmm, well placed patriot spy, or devoted loyalist lady? Or just another young woman trying to eek out a living in the occupied city? Perhaps a conversation could add some clarity. He had no desire to punish a pair that had the innocent misfortune of needing to be out past curfew, but if they’d done so _intentionally_ ...well, a night in jail for the young man and a hefty fine for the young lady would do much for teaching them a lesson, depending on the _reason._

“Walk with me, then, and tell me your reasons,” he said, catching the startled glances they exchanged as they fell in line beside him. “Where are you off to then, Miss?”

“Elizabeth Chase, sir,” she said, and gave him her address, “I’m afraid it's my fault that Adam is out and about,” she added, “He always comes to the tavern around closing when I’m locking up, and walks me home. Says it’s not safe, even with the troops patrolling in the evenings.”

 _Adam, hm?_ He thought, amused. They were very close, though it _did_ seem to be mostly platonic. “He’s quite right,” he said, instead of commenting on that interesting slip of information, “it’s never safe for young ladies to be out and about on their own at night. And while the soldiers have discipline, it is always wise to be cautious around them. Not all of them like the long occupation away from home.”

The young man slumped a little, relief flashing across his face, and Rhys almost smiled. “And you, young man,” he said, instead, “I suppose you’re heading home afterwards?”

“Yes sir,” he said, bashfully, “I’m in Harlem, though, sir. It’s on the other side of town.”

Rhys eyebrows rose, “And one of the most patrolled neighborhoods in the city,” he said sternly. “You most certainly would have been caught.” It was a good thing he’d planned on escorting the young man home himself.

The young man bowed his head, chastened, as his companion laid a gentle hand on his arm. Rhys also ignored the “I _did_ tell you that was possible, Adam,” that sounded more akin to sibling teasing.

“We were unaware,” the young woman said, finally turning back to him, “We usually make it out of the tavern well ahead of curfew. There was an issue with some unruly patrons this evening - there were some soldiers present, so there should be a report on it - but it caused a delay in closing, so we ended up past curfew.”

He nodded, “I will look into it once you’ve made it home safely. Young man,” he said, turning to Adam, “may I have your name seeing as Miss Chase has already given me hers?”

“Oh, yes of course, sir,” the teenager flushed, at the faux pas, “Forgive me, my name is Adam Casey.”

“Mr. Casey,” he nodded, “Miss Chase. And as you are aware, I am Lieutenant Colonel Rhys Kirkland.” 

“Well met, sir,” the young lady - Elizabeth - smiled.

“Well met, young miss,” he returned, feeling a smile curl on his own lips, her expression oddly contagious.

How oddly nostalgic, he mused.

“What is it that you do, Miss Chase, Mr. Casey?” he inquired.

They exchanged long glances, silent communication at its finest, and Miss Chase smiled at him, obviously taking the lead as she’d been wont to do. “Well, I’m the baker’s daughter,” she said with a small grin, “I bake with my father to help him with the increased demand. A lot of the soldiers are fond of his creations. I believe even the Admiral has been spotted frequenting our shop - though I have only my father’s word for that particular miracle,” she laughed.

Well, if she was indeed Elizabeth _Chase_ , then she’d have Rhys’s backing on that. Arthur _adored_ the Chase bakery, something about the pastries there provoked a sense of nostalgia for Alfred’s younger years, a time endlessly less complicated for the Empire.

“And you work in the Tavern as well?” He was fairly impressed. That was backbreaking work, getting up hours afore dawn to bake, and then staying until just before curfew to work a thankless evening shift at a very popular pub.

“Yes sir,” she said, “despite my father’s bakery being very successful, it is always wise to prepare for any eventuality. We depleted our emergency stores a few months ago when my father took ill. By God’s grace, he recovered well enough, but I couldn’t keep up with the demand on my own whilst he was ill and we lost a significant amount of revenue.”

Rhys nodded, understanding easily enough how quickly one emergency could ruin a family, especially in this day and age.

“And you, Mr. Casey?” Rhys asked, turning his gaze onto the apparently shy young man, who flushed.

“I’m an apprentice at a printing press, sir,” he admitted bashfully, well aware of the increased scrutiny such a position usually brought about.

“At which newspaper?”

“The _Royal American Gazette,_ sir,” the teenager said, a line of tension easing from his shoulders just as it did from Rhys’s. That was the government sponsored paper, thankfully. “I thought taking Mr. Gaine’s offer at the _Weekly Mercury_ was unwise given the present situation.”

“A good decision,” he praised. Mr. Gaine was not an outright traitor, but he’d long since proven untrustworthy. There were suspicions that he was smuggling printing equipment to the rebels, but it had been unproven thus far.

The teenager flushed at the compliment, “It allows me to work more during the day, sir,” he said, “which lets me walk Eliza home in the evenings to make sure no one bothers her.”

“Oh pish,” Eliza sighed, “You know very well I’m capable of taking care of myself, Adam.”

Adam frowned, though, his mouth set stubbornly, “You may well be,” he admitted, “but I don’t like the way they look at you. And when you’re alone, you walk about without a care sometimes, like you’re taunting them, Eliza.”

“They won’t hurt me,” she said insistently, straightening to stand almost regally, “I’m a big girl, Adam. I like spending time with you walking back, but I can certainly take care of myself.”

“I’d have to agree with young Mr. Casey,” Rhys inserted, “Men - particularly soldiers who aren’t fond of their responsibilities, I’ve found - are, unfortunately, often governed by their emotions in and can act undisciplined, even in cases that call for restraint,” he warned. She seemed a kind young woman, and he’d hate to see her fall victim to some of the things soldiers were capable of. It was unfortunate that he had to say such things about his own troops, but he would not see a young woman’s safety so risked by keeping her uniformed.

She raised a brow, “Humans are creatures well capable of reason and tolerance,” she countered, piercing him with an appraising look, “Every man who conducts himself without discipline does so intentionally, and deserves whatever consequences the laws heap upon him. To suggest otherwise is the set up of a Hobbesian trap, sir.”

_“My people are just as capable of reason and tolerance as yours are, Father! To think otherwise is the set up of a Hobbesian trap! And yet, we have no voice to prove ourselves.”_

The words took his breath away.

“You’re quite well read,” he said, surprised, pushing past the unexpected memory to focus on the gleam in blue eyes _(familiar eyes - No, he wasn’t going down that trap)._

She nodded, grinning, “It’s quite the surprise for the baker’s daughter, isn’t it?” she said knowingly.

“It is, I will admit,” he responded, only the slightest hint of guilt at misjudging the young woman. It was quite a natural assumption, after all.

“‘Tis alright, sir,” she chirped, “I’m good friends with Peggy Ward - her father, Mr. Richard Ward, and my father are good childhood friends, so I spent a lot of time at her home when my father didn't need my help in the store.”

The way her eyes lit up at the turn of their discussion reminded him of the happy glow of his nephew’s smile whenever Rhys presented him with a new book. He quashed the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, and shook off the association. He missed his nephew dearly, but he couldn’t keep seeing him where there was nothing.

“I’m quite pleased to see that I’m in cultured company,” he said wryly, and indeed, he actually was. “Unfortunately, my brothers and the fellow soldiers I keep company with wouldn’t know _Common Sense_ from an Invisible Hand pushing them down a hill.”

She giggled at his wry joke, and favored him with a familiar dimpled smile, and he felt a spike of nostalgia at the stunning replica of his nephew’s grin on a different face.

Seeming to sense the shift in his emotions - another thing she and Alfred seemed to have in common, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind - her smile faded. “Are you well, sir?”

“Just nostalgic, Miss,” he said, abruptly weary, “I apologize if I startled you.”

“Not at all, sir,” she said, and her smile was gentle and reassuring, “You’ve been very kind. First to escort me and Adam home, and then to forego the usual punishments for being out after curfew.”

“Punishment,” Rhys said, “is meant to discourage the troublemakers, and keep order. It is unfortunate that circumstances have dictated that you break curfew - and I do urge you not to do so again, lest some other soldier who is less tolerant or less patient come across you - but I can see that you meant no trouble.”

“You’re quite gracious, sir,” she said, pausing just a second to drop into a graceful, grateful curtsey, rising almost _regally_. Something in the movement struck him with the most painful feeling of _déjà vu_ that it almost made him dizzy.

He shook it off, “No trouble at all, Miss.” 

She just smiled at him, that infuriatingly familiar, _beloved_ smile, and said, “Of course, sir.”

They turned onto her street, only moments afterwards, and walked up towards the baker’s locked store front. She smiled warmly, “Well,” she said, looking to him, “this is me. We live upstairs. Thank you again, sir, for escorting me home.”

“Of course, Miss,” he inclined his head graciously, “Will your father be up to receive you?” The light on in the upper apartment certainly indicated he would be.

She laughed and nodded. And then paused for a moment, “Actually, sir, if you don’t mind - Adam,” she turned to her startled companion suddenly, “why don’t you ask dad if you could kip here for the night? You know he does adore you, he wouldn’t mind if you took the cot in front of the fire as long as you help around the shop in the morning. And this way we shan’t trouble the Lieutenant Colonel any longer than we must’ve already.”

The young man looked hesitant, tossing a side glance at a semi-stunned Rhys. And well he should be, it usually wasn’t proper for young women to be inviting men into their homes. Although, he mused, if they were as close friends as the young pair had assured him, and it did seem as if they were if what the young lady had said was true, then the only outlier that could incite such hesitance was Rhys’s presence here.

“Thank you, Eliza,” the young man said, finally, “I think I’ll take you up on your kindly offer,” he turned to Rhys, then, “We shan’t trouble you any longer, good sir. Thank you for escorting us.” Eliza beamed at them both as he came to stand next to her. They were of a height, Rhys noted absently as he nodded to the both of them.

“‘Twas no trouble at all for a good conversation and to ensure the safety of my charges,” he said, as he did consider the residents of the city under his charge for as long as he was stationed here. And the conversation was a delightful addition to the night.

He stepped back and watched as the young lady knocked on the door. The way it swung open within seconds indicated their exchange hadn’t been unnoticed by the occupant. A tall, hefty man with curly brown hair stood framed in the doorway. He was still fully dressed, though he’d untucked his shirt in deference to the comfort of his own home, and there were still lighter patches of flour tucked away in some of the light curls, lending weight to the assumption that this was, indeed, the baker.

“Eliza,” there was so much relief in the deep voice, “thank the good Lord. I was so worried when you ran late, I was about to send for someone.” He wrapped his daughter into an enormous bear hug in his relief, blinking out when he saw the two other figures. “And Adam, boy, is that you? You walked my daughter home, son?”

“Yessir,” the young man said, straightening as that piercing honey gaze landed on him, “I insisted on it.”

“That’s a good boy,” he said, nodding in approval, and Adam’s shoulders unknotted just a bit, “But what on God’s good green earth took you so long?”

Adam winced, but Eliza swooped in effortlessly, “We got held up at the Tavern, Daddy,” she said, words accented sweetly, drawing her father’s attention back to her, “There were some patrons causing some trouble at the bar - a pair o’ patriots if I’d ever seen one. Knocked down some of the inventory and broke a few bottles. Thankfully some of the soldiers had been hanging around the bar and arrested those rabble rousers, but I had to stay back to redo the inventory.”

Ah, so that was the story. The young lady was right, he would be able to cross check that report easily enough.

“And who is this gentleman with you?” the baker said, peering over his daughter’s shoulders to Rhys.

“Lieutenant Colonel Rhys Kirkland, Mr. Chase,” he said, watching the baker’s eyes go wide, and with good reason. Kirkland was a well known name, and if the baker was indeed friends with the Ward family like Elizabeth had suggested, then he would be well aware of the Kirkland family and the power they wielded. “I ran across these two after curfew and offered to escort them home.”

The baker nodded, “My thanks, sir,” he said, “for bringing my daughter back home safely.”

“My duty, sir,” he returned. “Will Mr. Casey be staying with you, Mr. Chase, or shall I be escorting him home?”

Father and daughter exchanged a pair of looks, communicating without words, and Mr. Chase turned to look at him and shook his head, “No need, sir,” he said, “It won’t be the first time Adam’s kipped over, won't be the last. No need to trouble you anymore.”

Rhys offered them a smile, “Then I will bid you all a good night.”

“And to you, sir,” the two teenagers chorused, while the baker nodded.

“And sir,” the baker asserted, stopping Rhys as he was turning to go, “if you’d like to come by during the day, I’ll have some pastries and fresh bread for you. I know the Admiral occasionally sends for some of my stock, so just let me know, and I’ll have some prepared for him. You’ve done us a good turn, I’d like to return it.”

“Sir, I couldn’t possibly -,” it felt oddly like a bribe, in many ways, even though he knew it to be the grateful thanks of a worried father.

“I’ll insist, sir,” the man said firmly, “If you insist on payment, I won’t turn you away, but I’ll gladly give them to you without it. You kept my daughter safe, and that means a lot to me.”

“I will - consider it,” he said, after a long moment. “At the very least, I will be by for some of the Admiral’s favorites,” he added with good humor, “he’s been in quite the mood as of late, it might do something to cheer him up.”

The baker grinned, “We’ll be waiting for you, then, sir. Have a good evening.”

Rhys nodded graciously, “And to you, sir. Miss Chase, Mr. Casey.”

“Sir,” they echoed each other, Adam with a quick bow, and Eliza with another of those too-regal, elegant curtseys that were achingly familiar. Adam skittered inside just after Mr. Chase, but Eliza lingered long enough to toss him a warm, kind smile that twisted something inside him with how _familiar_ it was.

It was when her hair, coming loose from its braided crown, swug down behind her as she was closing the door, that a flash of insight and clarity struck him, and Rhys suddenly remembered why she’d felt so familiar to him. Why they _both_ had.

That french noblewoman and her coachmen, from almost a year ago - they looked almost _identical._

And both the noblewoman from a year ago, and the baker’s daughter tonight, had both reminded him almost unbearably of _Alfred_.

**.**

The minute they saw Rhys turn the corner the pair of them slumped in relief. Kassidy raked a hand through her scruffy hair and sighed as she flopped over the small couch. “Oh Lord,” she groaned, “that was _far_ too close for my sanity, Eliza.”

Alfred, who was still staring through the window at the darkened street before them, hummed in silent acknowledgement. It really had been too close. Had it been anyone but Rhys, he doubted they would’ve been as lenient. At the very least, they would’ve ended up with a fine. But even Rhys carried his own risks. As the most empathetic of his brothers, and the most intuitive, he had the largest chance of piecing together who Eliza Chase really was. Not to mention the resemblance Eliza Chase and her best friend Adam Casey had to the mysterious french noblewoman and her coachman. Both of whom he knew Rhys to have seen together at one point.

“You two need to be more careful,” a warm voice chastised them, and Adam Chase popped out from the hallway, eyes watching them reproachfully, “If Lieutenant Colonel Kirkland hadn’t been so agreeable, I doubt I’d be speaking with both of you right now. The chance of Adam being arrested is far too high.”

Kassidy winced, but agreed.

“Have you both eaten something?” he asked, darting from Kassidy’s sprawled form to his ‘daughter’s’ contemplative one, “I can warm something up.”

“We ate,” Alfred said warmly, turning to face the man who - while still unrelated - acted so much like his father, “Thank you, Dad.”

Adam smiled at him, “Not at all a problem, Eliza. I’m going to bed down now, I’ll trust Adam to set up the cot whenever he’s ready to kip. Good night, both of you.”

They both bid him good night and watched as he vanished down the hallway, likely towards the far room, just above the bakery’s storefront. Alfred’s bedroom, by far more private, was in the back of the apartment, facing the rear-side of the next street’s stores instead of the street level.

Once she was sure Adam was out of hearing range, Kass sighed heavily and resumend her sprawl, “I swear,” she sighed, reclining against the sofa, “everyday gets more stressful. I don’t know how you handle it Al-,”

“You know the rules, _Adam_ ,” Alfred cut in, reminding his friend and aide quietly, “One layer at all times. If you want to let your hair down, I have no problem with it. You certainly need a break. But keep to the rules.”

Kassidy winced, “Of course,” she said, a hint of apology, “my mistake Eliza.”

“It’s alright,” he assured. It wasn’t. And Kass knew it. “Let’s get some sleep. We’re all tired. We can talk about it in the morning - you’re still helping Dad, by the way.”

“Of course,” she laughed, “what kind of rogue do you take me for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The newspapers came from this rather interesting article by Timothy Barnes called ["Loyalist Newspapers of the American Revolution 1763-1783: A Bibliography"](https://www.americanantiquarian.org/proceedings/44517562.pdf) from the American Antiquarian Society. There's a lot of interesting little tidbits, some drama, and, of course, history! If that's at all your cup of tea, please check it out.
> 
> The _Common Sense_ joke came about thanks to Usagi323, who is my friend, enabler, and sounding board. Thank hun ^^


	5. The Fifth: Ward Residence, New York City (Autumn, 1779)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where Alfred's a little frazzled and he's _slipping_...yikes

Richard Ward and Adam Chase, despite their differing social strata, had always been good friends, and their friendship had grown to encompass all aspects of their families’ shared relationship. The friendship had weathered many a test, including that of loyalties. It was no secret that while he did not publically take a side, Adam Chase’s wife had patriot leanings that had estranged the erstwhile happy couple, while Richard Ward was a staunch loyalist. Nonetheless, Richard always patronized his friend’s bakery, encouraging others to do so as well, and Adam always kept the owner of a significantly sized merchant fleet appraised of the dockyard gossip and shifting sentiment about prices and goods. They were proud to proclaim their friendship stronger than any kind of political dispute. Their ‘daughters’ Peggy and Eliza were also quite good friends, despite the fact that Eliza had ‘grown up’ predominantly with her rebel-minded mother in the country, and their fathers had hoped they would maintain such a friendship just as they had.

So naturally, when the Ward family cook passed away suddenly, and the new one they were procuring would not arrive for three to four weeks, Peggy Ward suggested to her father that they hire Eliza, who usually ran bakery errands and helped her father in the kitchen might be willing to take over the position. They’d pay her, of course, both for her services and for the time she was taking away from her father’s business. And it was only temporary, of course, but they could hardly allow themselves to be without an experienced cook for so long - especially when they hosted so many hard working Generals and elite! What would they think?

And, of course, Richard Ward jumped at the chance, as his daughter knew he would.

Alfred had, of course, known, going in, that he’d have to be extremely careful with this particular job. He’d be interacting with the elite of the British military, the very heads of the New York occupation, and they were ever watchful for any infiltration. And three weeks into the delicate operation, things had been going very well, indeed.

Which, of course, was when fate decided to mix things up.

Alfred had known he was going to have to be careful, expecting the scrutiny of the British military to fall on him naturally, as the only temporary member of the Ward household. But he hadn’t expected his father to be _anywhere near him_ , during this particular assignment.

One could forgive the near heart attack he had when he strolled into the parlor to inquire after Mr. Ward’s preference for dinner and saw Arthur lounging regally on Richard Ward’s favored armchair. Of course, by now, he was more than used to running into his family while undercover ( _no matter how many heart attacks it gives George whenever it turns up in the reports; Alex had long been intercepting the worst ones to keep the man somewhat sane_ ), so he only blinked, startled at the new addition, before inquiring after dinner as he’d intended to.

“Oh, Eliza!” Mr. Ward says joyfully, “Yes, Admiral Kirkland is staying with us for a week - it was really quite last minute, or I would’ve had the housekeeper inform you earlier.” The man pauses for a moment, contemplating something or the other as Alfred tried not to sweat under a steady and - _damn it, already_ \- suspicious green gaze, “Yes, why not? Admiral, would you care to choose the meal for tonight?”

Arthur turned his dangerous gaze away from the young nation-to-be and looked at Mr. Ward consideringly, “I’d be honored, sir,” he said politely, “Perhaps something of traditional English fare, if it’s not an inconvenience? I do get homesick on occasion.”

Alfred considered the request, running through the supplies in the house and what he knew of his father’s preferences, and said, “We have the fixings for steak and ale pie, if that would please you, Admiral?”

Surprised delight gleamed momentarily in his father’s eyes, and he nodded graciously, “That would be delightful, Miss,” he said, before turning away dismissively, Mr. Ward took a moment to wave her off with his approval, before Arthur began speaking again, this time to her current employer. “Now, we were discussing shifting some troops away to protect current trade. I know it bothers many ship owners that other continental ports are less defended than New York - .”

Alfred paused on the threshold of the hallway, ears catching some of the more _interesting_ details he knew he’d be able to pass on to Alexander, before continuing on. He had to make the best steak-and-ale pie he knew, all the more reason for Arthur to stop watching him.

But Arthur, who’d noted the young cook’s odd pause and interest in their discussion, had no intentions of _stopping._

**.**

That evening, dinner was presented with the same care and fanfare it was usually. Only, it wasn’t just Alfred who was watching the guests begin to dig into their meal. Mr. Ward and Peggy exchanged worried looks with each other, and then Alfred, who was wringing an old towel in his hands, as the Admiral froze one bite into his meal.

“Admiral?” Mr. Ward inquired, worriedly.

Arthur blinked, “That tastes like my son’s homemade pie,” he said, voice quiet, but thick and heavy with nostalgia, “he used to make it for me, just like that, before he left.” He looked up at the frozen form of the cook, suspicion growing thicker, but accompanied by a gratefulness he’d never seen directed at him before, “Thank you, Miss. It’s lovely.”

Alfred didn’t quite _flee_ from the room upon receiving a grateful Mr. Ward’s wave of dismissal, but it was fairly close. Green eyes followed him slyly as he went.

**.**

Dawn was still hours yet from breaking when Alfred rose from his bed. He’d made his way from his room in the staff quarters into the kitchen, blinking sleep blearily from his eyes as he set about preparing the ingredients for fresh bread and some tea for himself to keep awake. No coffee, he lamented internally, but of course, the Wards were a good and loyal English family, so naturally they would stick to tea.

Candles were lit quickly, illuminating the generous kitchen space as he took a small breakfast he’d kept for himself from the night before. He’d have some bread and butter with fresh tea later on, once the staff broke from their duties for a brief morning meal, but he always broke his fast before he set to work. Working in a warm kitchen, near the hearth constantly, was dangerous if you had no food in your belly.

Of course, he’d finished quickly enough and begun to mix up the doughy mixture.

It was only once he’d started kneading the dough that he caught sight of green eyes studying him from the hallway door and jumped, bumping painfully into the counter as he whirled around.

“Oh, _Mary_ ,” he swore, throwing off the shock of catching his father watching him, “you startled me, sir.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rose as he studied the young cook, and the white-knuckled grip she had on the counter, “My apologies, Miss -?”

“Chase,” Alfred insisted, “Elizabeth Chase, sir. I’m the temporary cook until Madame Baker’s replacement arrives.”

“Of course,” his father replied dryly. “I apologize if I startled you, Miss Chase,” he picked up his prior train of thought, “I just came in search of some tea to start off the morning.”

“Of course,” Alfred echoed, “accepted. My own apologies for my, er, profanity. I suppose I’m used to being the only person awake in the early hours of the morning. Most of the household prefer to sleep in when they can.”

Arthur’s lips quirked, though his eyes had flickered with something oddly calculating, and it was making Alfred _very_ nervous. “I’m familiar with the inclination,” the Empire drawled, “I suppose you’re more familiar with the pre-dawn hours, as a cook.”

“A baker, sir,” he corrected gently, turning away slightly to return to his dough. “I’m the baker’s daughter, and my father is very good friends with Mr. Ward, as I am with his daughter, Peggy- ah, I suppose you’d know her as Margaret.”

And, indeed, Peggy Ward was a good friend. She was also a silent but quite active patriot. Usually it was her reports coming out of her father’s house that kept them afloat with the Generals’ musings. But, however unfortunately, Mr. Ward had recently decided his daughter was too old to be concerning herself with the matters of men, and should be focused on acustoming herself to run a household, as she was rapidly approaching marriageable age. It would take some time for Peggy to persuade her father that she was capable of doing both, and do so without arousing any suspicion. But in the meantime, they _needed_ that information. It had been a bittersweet blessing that Madame Baker had passed away around the time they needed an infiltrator posed in the household, and Alfred’s well-established cover indeed fit the bill.

“Yes,” Arthur murmured, not taking his eyes off the curious cook, “quite.”

“Please, sit,” Alfred said, forcing the nerves down, gesturing to the small table in the kitchen usually used for the staff’s meals, “I can make your tea. Or if you’d wish to take it up in the parlor, I can have it brought up to you, Admiral.” It might be easier on his jumping nerves, too.

“There’s no need for the fuss, Miss,” his father assured him, dashing his hopes, walking over to take a seat by the table, “I’ll sit.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, moving to rinse his hands off, “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

He ignored watchful green eyes and let himself sink into the repetitive motions of making tea, long since used to it after literal decades of practice. He’d made Arthur’s tea enough times that it was almost meditative, and it gave him enough calm to grab hold of his yelping nerves and wrestle them back under control. When he finally re-emerged, there was a pristine cup of tea in his hands, ready for the tea tray he’d been setting up. He set it down and took up the tray, depositing it in front of his father on the sturdy staff table with all the fixings ready for Arthur to doctor his cup any way he wished should he not like how Alfred had prepared it for him.

As soon as Arthur had taken a sip of his tea and frozen, however, Alfred realized that Arthur had never given him his tea order, and in his nervousness, Alfred himself had forgotten to ask.

And then, he’d made Arthur’s cup _exactly_ how he’d liked it.

The clink of the teacup being set forcefully against delicate china echoed just as loud as the internal scream resonating in his mind.

He forced himself back into the present, and said, “Is there something wrong, sir?” and tried to pretend his voice wasn’t as strained as he knew it to be.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck-_

Arthur stared at him piercingly for an achingly long moment. And then he smiled, dangerous and terrifying, and said, “No, not at all.”

He spent the next few hours as the sun came up trying to ignore the way his hands shook as he kneaded and shaped the dough, and the piercing gaze boring into him from the table. Finally, bread baked and a new pot of tea prepped, he turned around to inform the still watching Admiral that he was taking the fixings for breakfast up to the dining room, if he would like to head up there?

Arthur smiled at him, charming and dangerous, and said that he’d finish off his tea and then join them in a moment.

He grabbed the first of the breakfast trays - he’d send one of the staff down to collect the rest as he organized things upstairs - and headed up. Green eyes boring into his back as he went.

He wasn’t under any illusion that Arthur had let things go, but he’d take the reprieve and go with it for as long as he could. Thank _god_ the new cook would be here in a few days.

**.**

Arthur stared after the cook, long after the skittish young woman had vanished up the staircase to bring breakfast to the main dining room. His mind turned over the surprising turn of events; the nostalgic pie, the perfect cup of tea - things only Alfred had made for him before, even when others had tried.

Matthew, for one, had tried many times to perfect Arthur’s favorite cup of tea - one of those sibling rivalries he was sure - and Arthur had long given up in telling him that he’d never quite managed it. Oh, it was perfect, there was no doubt about it. It was the same way his staff made it, had taught both his boys to make it once they were old enough. But Alfred had always made it with _something_ that he’d kept a secret. Something he’d never told anyone, even the staff, about, and it had always made him smile when his son would make tea for a change. The fact that it had become so rare for Alfred to do so in the years leading up to this - this teenage rebellion of his only made Arthur treasure the memory of it even more.

And yet, there it was. His Alfred’s secret recipe, made for him by a young cook in the middle of occupied New York. Alone, he might’ve dismissed it as a recipe that Alfred had picked up in the colonies. But with her _reaction_ \- knowing she’d done something notable, something she shouldn’t have - and with the pie from last night, Alfred’s favorite, _Arthur’s_ favorite...well.

“Miss Elizabeth Chase,” he mused, thinking of the skittish young lady who knew too much. Who knew too much about him, to know nothing of Alfred.

It looked like he finally had a lead.


	6. The Sixth That Wasn’t: New York City (Spring, 1780)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _coughs delicately_...so, Arthur's been having some issues.

Another dead end.

Arthur sighed, listening to his brothers grumble and gripe ahead of him as he trailed behind. As much as he wanted to - as furious as he was - he was exhausted enough to understand their frustration.

It had been almost five years since he'd last seen his son. Five years, since his son had stormed away from his manor home in the outskirts of London, and snuck aboard a ship bound for New York. Five years of desperate searching, snatching at every lead they could get. Five years of going in and out of New York, like something was pulling him back here.

They were all exhausted and desperate. Arthur was furious with his son, of course he was, but more than that he just wanted this god forsaken tantrum to be done with.

He wanted Alfred to come home.

_ No matter what it took to bring him home,  _ that dark part of him that had grown stronger over the years, the longer Alfred defied him, crooned viciously.

He sighed.

Months of following dead end leads had him far more inclined to listen to that particularly dark little voice than he would normally. Little things building up slowly, pushing him to an edge he didn’t know when he would come across. American saboteurs sneaking away with crates of tea, leaving him unable to take peace in the soothing staple. Wary New Yorkers who didn’t support the patriots, but didn’t like the occupation either, carefully  _ not  _ sneering at them in the streets. Ration shortages that left even the soldiers lacking supplies, leaving Arthur carrying around a set of ruined gloves without a replacement. But he pushed those thoughts aside. That was a worry for another time.

Instead, as they crossed into the central market square, he turned his mind to the reports his spies had been sending. Lafayette had been sighted lurking around the docks, likely passing off some correspondence to a smuggler to carry back to France. His informers around the Congress had confirmed that the stubborn Frenchman had refused to make the trip back to France to plead for aid, determined that he was far more useful here, with far less risk of being caught out in international waters. He hadn’t stopped sending letters though - fruitful ones, at that - but if it kept Lafayette within his information flow, Arthur would take it.

They could deal with French aid before they arrived in the colonies, Arthur was sure. No matter what Lafayette and the rebel Congress entreated, it wouldn’t be enough.

He mused on that a little longer, as his bare hand brushed against someone’s forearm in the giant mosh pit that was the New York City central markets.

And then clamped down, hard, almost  _ bruising, _ the moment every part of his being lit up as the presence he’d brushed against registered as  _ his son. _

He looked at the stunned young  _ lady _ he’d accosted in the middle of the market, rising panic in suddenly familiar blue eyes, “ _ Miss  _ Chase,” he said, puzzle pieces finally aligning together in his mind, “I’m glad I caught you. I have some unfortunate news from a mutual friend of ours. If you could step aside with me, so we might discuss this in private?”

And helpless to say no to such a request in public,  _ he _ agreed.

**.**

He’d gotten too careless.

He’d gotten  _ so  _ careless.

Years of orbiting in the same spheres, within the same city, as his family - hell, even encountering them on occasion - had made him complacent. He’d become so sure in the weave of his disguise; it had been iron-bound and skin-tight, and no one had even come close to seeing through it. Even his slip up with Arthur at the Ward’s home hadn’t cost him more than a hovering eye that had been  _ gone  _ by the Winter, as Washington had acted to draw the attention away.

God, how could he have gotten so  _ careless?!  _

That was the only way to explain his current situation, he forced himself to acknowledge, as half his mind was shaking in bold-faced terror and the other frantically grasping for a solution. The only way to explain the five points of red-hot fury in the grip on his arm as his whole body went cold in a numbing terror that he couldn’t,  _ daren’t,  _ show.

Not to his father. Not to his colonizer.

Not to his  _ Empire.  _

He wasn’t independent yet, after all. No matter what he’d proclaimed to the rest of the world. And this was looking, for all intents and purposes, like the beginnings of his most recurring nightmares.

He’s been  _ so fucking careless,  _ god - he hadn’t even been thinking straight. It was a warm spring day, and he’d been working in the heat of the bakery all morning. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to not roll up his flour speckled sleeves. He’d been wandering around the markets and the docks all day, and the fresh sea breeze on his skin had done wonders to ease his mood. He hadn’t even seen his family coming up the quay.

One touch, that was all it had taken. And everything he’d built for  _ years  _ was crashing down on top of him.

Arthur  _ knew.  _

And Alfred desperately needed to get away.

**.**

A bloody dress. All it had taken was a bloody dress, and Arthur had missed his son hiding right under his nose for almost five years. A  _ bloody fucking dress.  _

A bloody dress and truly phenomenal acting skills, he forced himself to acknowledge as he hauled said wayward son through the crowded streets. As much as he’d like to protest otherwise given the givens, his colonists were not stupid. Perhaps tempted might be a better word, but as Washington and that blasted aide of his had exemplified,  _ far  _ from stupid.

Miss Elizabeth Chase was  _ not  _ an inconspicuous or unknown figure. She was a pillar of the community, in many ways. Even before Arthur himself had encountered  _ Miss Eliza Chase  _ at the Wards’ home, he’d known of her. Hard not to when her father’s bakery was well known and well patronized by most of the upper ranks of the British military, as well as what passed for the aristocracy here across the pond. Hell, Arthur patronized it himself; had found some of the pastries and the smell of bread baking to be oddly nostalgic when he was tired of this emotionally draining campaign away from home.

But even disregarding the bakery, she was a fixture of the community in her own right. She sat pretty atop the hierarchy in the Tavern, which itself was a fixed bastion of loyalist support. She ran deliveries for her father’s bakery all across the city, making her face and charming personality a commonly known one amongst the elites. She was educated with Richard Ward’s daughter, Peggy, and had an elite upbringing as the result of that and her father’s own often unacknowledged wealthy family. She could talk politics and business amongst sailors and businessmen alike. She was a known, established quantity in New York City.

The thought that she was, in all actuality,  _ Alfred  _ forced Arthur to mentally reassess everything he’d known about his son. Because he was  _ clearly  _ unaware of a great deal of Alfred’s abilities if he’d missed this.

God, Alistair was going to  _ laugh  _ when he found out.

When they finally arrived at an inn - one Arthur had used before, both to stay the night, and to convene with his informants; their standards for privacy were quite impressive, even in occupied territory - he had the presence of mind to release the bruising grip he had on his son. It wouldn’t do to look like he was threatening a young woman - no, not at  _ all _ . Unfortunate, he mused, that he’d had to do so through the marketplace, but the risk of Alfred getting away without keeping a hand on him at all times was  _ far  _ too high for Arthur’s liking.

He threw a piercing look Alfred’s way, just in case the brat decided to make a run for it the moment he let go (he was close enough that Arthur wasn’t worried, regardless). Thankfully, Alfred had picked up on the unsubtle cue, and followed Arthur into the inn without a word. He’d even reached over to tug down the rolled up sleeve on the arm where Arthur had grabbed him, likely in an attempt to cover what would soon turn into quite the nasty bruise.

Arthur regretted, for a moment, the force he’d employed behind his grip. For a moment. But then he recalled the better part of  _ five years  _ he’d spent chasing down this particular brat as the boy had run circles around them, and all regret gleefully faded from his mind.

“I require the use of one of your parlor rooms,” he said firmly, as soon as he’d walked up to the innkeeper, without the space for any questions or denial. The innkeep nodded without looking at him, double checking the room’s bookings under the counter.

“Shan’t be a problem, sir,” the man said with a low huff, turning to look at him, “Would you require anything else?”

“Some tea for myself and the young lady, please.”

That startled the inkeep, obviously having not realized the presence of a second person with Arthur, and he looked up, only to pause.

“Why, good golly,” the innkeep said, swarthy face lighting up in recognition, “if it isn’t Miss Lizzie! What brings you down this way, lass?” His olive gaze darted back to Arthur, “And in such company?”

Arthur watched, with a mix of amazement and disconcertion, as his son straightened, expression smoothing into something warm and cheery, as if he hadn’t been pale and half-way from panic a mere moment ago. His son had shifted effortlessly into Miss Elizabeth Chase with the ease of a peerless actor. Or perhaps, his mind muttered darkly, a skilled informer. Studying the teenager as he took a step away, he marveled at the fact that only the nearly two centuries of knowing his son and watching him grow allowed him to see the minute details that gave him away.

If he hadn’t known - down to blood and bone that stamped and bound them together - who he was looking at, he likely never would’ve caught on.

It was incredible. It was a true  _ mastery  _ of oneself, to be able to control almost every aspect of your presentation.

It was  _ dangerous,  _ and Arthur was torn between being highly pleased at his son’s success or furious at the chaos it had brought about. Or perhaps, one better, the relief that he didn’t have to go up against it any longer.

After all, facade or not, Alfred was caught. Even if he slipped away, Arthur knew where he would go. There were precious few ways in and out of the city, and Alfred’s unfortunate loyalty to his people sheltering him would mean there was no way he’d leave them in the dark when he had to flee.

“Mr. Andrews,” his son bubbled cheerfully, clasping both hands together in the classic gesture of effusive joy, “you’re looking well, sir! How’s Miss Margie and the girls?”

“Well and good, as you know,” the innkeeper chuckled, “I think one of the gals stopped by the bakery some days ago.”

“Two loaves of fresh bread and a basket of jumble cookies,” Alfred chirped, grinning, as the innkeeper laughed.

“That’s it!” he said, before blinking, “Well then, what brings you down this way? There’s no trouble here, now, is there lass?” the man inquired, looking between Arthur and his son with narrowed eyes and the slant of a potential scowl settling on his lips

“Oh nothing to worry about,” Alfred waved the innkeeper off cheerfully, “I’ve been assured it shan’t take but a few minutes. I’ve got deliveries to finish up with before my shift tonight.” He gestured to the basket that had been tucked away in the crook of his elbow - the one opposite the arm Arthur had grabbed - and the innkeeper nodded, understanding.

“Of course,” he said, “I’ll jus’ let you get on with your business then. Tell your dad I’ve said hello.”

“Of course!” Alfred echoed cheerfully, sliding a sideways glance at Arthur, who hadn’t looked away. Arthur took it as his own cue, and made his way down the hallway to where he knew the parlor room to be, keeping an eye on Alfred as they made their way through the inn. When the hallway narrowed, he gestured Alfred to go in front of him, catching the resulting frown slanted his way. Not that Alfred had likely expected any different

It bothered Arthur something  _ fierce  _ that his son acted like he was enemy territory  ~~ (even though he technically was) ~~ .

The parlor was a small room, warmly decorated, just out of the way of the main bar room so any patrons who’d overindulged wouldn’t disturb the occupants. The small seating area - a set of upholstered windsor chairs without a division on either side of a circular coffee table, bracketed by a pair of single comfortable armchairs - looked marvelously comfortable for an inn in the city. It was, after all, one of the reasons Arthur and several other higher up military officials patronized this particular inn for various meetings.

Alfred had gone in first - Arthur refusing to risk him slipping out behind him - and had already slipped into one of the single chairs, deftly resettling his skirts around him as he crossed his legs and made himself comfortable. The empty basket of baked goods, the delightful aroma of which still lingered, had been settled on the rug-covered floor beside him.

Arthur knew that the tea he had ordered for them would arrive shortly so he lingered, still standing, and took a moment to take in his son.

He looked fresh off his chores - a lingering tiredness but enough bubbly cheer to make up for it - and had sunk into the chair as if grateful for the break it gave him. The hefty braid he’d seen on his last encounter with his son had been coiled into a bun, piled at the back of his head and wrapped in a pale blue handkerchief tied just under the bun, with its edges trailing down like a cheerful ribbon at the base of his neck. His dress was a little dusty, but well cared for. The sleeves had been rolled up, in deference to the heat, but Alfred had pulled them down upon entering the inn, leaving him looking far more put together than the half-hysteric panic he’d caught the teenager in earlier would’ve made him out to be. But nonetheless, he was sitting tall, straight, even if he’d let himself relax, and he wouldn’t look at Arthur, not at all. 

_ Now that won’t do.  _

Patience. He would have enough time to have this conversation once the tea arrived.

Which it did, promptly, almost as soon as he’d thought of it.

Preparing two cups accordingly, he reclined against the upholstery to take in the calming - however weak compared to his usual blend - aroma.

Alfred, however, had grimaced slightly, and had made no move to take his cup.

“You hadn’t a problem with tea in the Ward’s house, if my memory serves well,” he drawled pointedly, watching Alfred as he stiffened and a frown tugged at his lips. But he said nothing.

Arthur sighed. “Well then,” he said, “we’ll skip the pleasantries.” He set the tea down with a firm  _ chink  _ against the china, straightened and pierced his son with a dangerous look that had him freezing, “I hope you’re well and truly satisfied with what the cost this bloody tantrum of yours will be, poppet, because they’ll be paying for it for quite some time.”

Alfred went satisfyingly white at that, but then his mouth set, expression curving into its familiar mulish stubbornness, and said, softly, “It’s not a tantrum.”

Arthur snorted, eyes darkening, “You could hardly call it anything else,” he scoffed, “it’s completely beyond the pale that they’ll come even remotely close to success. The longer your  _ patriots  _ draw this out, the bloodier the conclusion will be. Any mercy the crown had has long since been extinguished. End your bloody tantrum now, come home of your own will, and perhaps I can make a plea for some leniency.”

The  _ for you  _ was all but echoing in the empty air of the room. Arthur would only argue for leniency for his son, and only because it was highly unlikely that he’d let the boy outside the Manor for the next decade, let alone back onto his own shores to rustle up the rabble. Washington and his rag-tag army, however...well. Arthur had no mercy for the man who swayed his son from his side, no matter how he quietly wondered in the corner of his mind he rarely acknowledged, how the man had done so.

Because Alfred would not have been swayed by words - and wouldn’t be swayed now, Arthur could already see it in the way his spine straightened, and his eyes darkened; with the set of his mouth and the fierceness in glare. Nothing Arthur would say could convince his son that he was in the wrong, because Alfred’s choice had been decisive and entirely his own.

But Arthur desperately wanted to try. He didn’t want to spend the next decade trying to get back on speaking terms with his own son.

Needless to say that if that’s what it took to bring his son back home - to do it against the stubborn little brat’s will - then Arthur was more than willing to do it  _ regardless  _ of what kind of grief Alfred gave him for it.

Alfred shook his head, “You don’t understand,” he said, and it wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t soft or entreating. It was just...sure. It was sad, but firm, and undisputable. He was absolutely certain that Arthur just didn’t understand what was happening. “It’s not a tantrum. I’m not going with you. I need to be here for them, right now.”

Arthur bit back a dark scoff, “You misunderstand me, Alfred,” he said, voice chill, “you’re coming home whether or not you want to. If you come of your own accord, I can argue for leniency. If you do not, then there will be nothing to stop me from rooting out this bloody insurgency and razing it to the ground.”

Pale as he’d gotten, Alfred’s expression was still set, “You still don’t understand,” his son said, and this time it  _ was  _ entreating. Soft, gentle and readily coaxing Arthur back into a less furious headspace. His son always did have his own effusive charm. “Even if we lose it won’t be the end of it.”

“Then explain it to me,” he demanded, a tinge of condescension weaving through his voice. Like there was anything else to understand.

Alfred’s hand curled into a fist before it uncoiled, and he took a steadying breath.

“I didn’t start this, dad,” his son said, and it was the first time since they’d spoken years ago that Alfred had acknowledged him for who he was. “I didn’t create the dissent, the dissatisfaction. I didn’t ignore the pleas for understanding, or the growing conflict.”

Arthur felt something inside him shift, uncomfortable, at the pointed accusations, about to retort when Alfred leaned forwards.

“They feel so  _ strongly,” _ his son implored, blue eyes bright and filled with purpose, so unlike how dark and panicked they’d been when Arthur had finally caught him, “They  _ want  _ this, dad. I tried to tell you this was coming - I’ve been telling you for  _ years,  _ dad, but you never  _ listened to me.  _ And now, when you’re telling me to stop, you still won’t acknowledge that how we got to where we are now was not  _ solely  _ my fault. _ ”  _

Arthur snorted, waving away the accusation with ease, “Petty rebellion comes often enough,” he dismissed, “You can’t be so sympathetic that you get caught up in these moments, Alfred. You’ll let your people influence you,” he shook his head, “You’re still too young.”

Unfortunately, there was no cure for that other than time. But they did have plenty of that. He’d have to have a watch on Alfred once they returned to London - he was still too susceptible to his people’s plight to understand the difference between what the people wanted and what they needed. The boy was lucky that Arthur cared enough to teach him.

But Alfred’s face had gone dark and stony.

“This is not a moment,” his son said, voice quiet a note of something dark and furious lingering in the tone, “it’s a  _ movement.  _ It’s not a rebellion, it’s a revolution.”

His son straightened, eyes dark and as forbidding as the sea in a hurricane, and Arthur felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, “They want this,” he said plainly, no art or artifice shading his voice or coloring his expression, “They want this, and I want this for them.”

_ I want this for me,  _ he didn’t say, but he didn’t need to. Arthur knew those words as if they’d been spoken aloud, echoing in the confines of the suddenly stifling room. The barest hint of a plea in his voice.

His son _~~his colony~~ ,_ his darling ~~_his property_~~ _…_ he couldn’t...he couldn’t be telling him this. Alfred was throwing a tantrum, that was all. A bloody tantrum.

_ He didn’t mean it, no. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to lEaVe mE. _

_ He can’t. He won’t. _

~~_ I wIlL NoT AlLoW iT. _ __ ~~

Alfred’s face hardened, every ounce of the beseeching, pleading young man that had lingered vanishing, and Arthur realized he’d said the last bit out loud.

“It’s not a matter of what you will  _ allow,”  _ his son said coldly, every inch of him suddenly broadcasting  _ threat,  _ “With or without your permission, my people will seek their independence. It is far too late to stop them. Even if we lose, the seed has been planted.”

“You’re my father, and I love you,” his son said, softening. But then, before Arthur can get his words straight, before Arthur can snap out of the furious tidal wave threatening the overwhelm him, pressing in on all sides, his son  _ smiled  _ at him, sharp and deadly and  _ sure (like him, his son had his smile, dangerous and deadly and  _ **_his)_ ** _ ,  _ and said, “But I love them too. As much as you protest it, I  _ am  _ a nation. They’re my people. And right now they need me, they need my loyalty. This is my decision.”

“You owe  _ me  _ your loyalty,” Arthur snarled back, his own slowly brewing fury lingering heavy in the air around them, well aware a small corner of his mind had heard the conviction in his son’s voice and realized what it meant for them both, “I’m your father. I’m your  _ Empire.  _ And you would repay everything I’ve done for you by trying to  _ leave me?”  _

“Dad,” Alfred sighed softly, not a hint of apology, only surety, in the aching emptiness growing between them, “I wouldn’t be leaving if you hadn’t pushed me away.”

And without further adieu, Alfred got up from his chair, skirts swishing against aged wood, and left the room.

Leaving Arthur staring, absolutely stunned by a verbal blow he hadn’t seen coming, at the chair where his son used to be.

**.**

Rhys entered the room he’d known his brother would escort his nephew to, hoping for a relatively peaceful resolution to what he already knew to be a tense situation. The moment of Arthur’s realization had resonated, and when he’d asked the baker’s daughter to step aside for a private discussion, the pieces had clicked in his own mind. He’d led Alistair and Reilley around the block to catch them up on what had happened, and allow them to get their impulse swearing out then. They didn’t need to drag in more tension.

Unfortunately, by the time they got to the room in question, the only thing Rhys saw was Arthur staring, utterly stunned, at an empty chair. With no nephew in sight.

_ Oh dear _ .

“Arthur,” he approached his brother hesitantly, setting a hand down on his shoulder, “where is Alfred? What on Earth happened?”

Which is, of course, when Arthur snapped out of his shock, and cursed loud enough to turn the air blue.

**.**

Down the street, Alfred’s stride hitched in tune with his breath, before he forced himself to exhale and walked just a little faster. He didn’t want to be anywhere near his family the moment Arthur woke up from his shock and realized what he’d just let happen.

He had a feeling it wouldn’t be  _ Arthur  _ who’d be coming after him, when he did.

**.**

By the time he reached the bakery he’d called home for years now, he’d mapped out a plan for how to proceed. It helped that they’d prepared for an emergency scenario where he’d have to leave covertly, but in none of them did it include that his father and all  _ three _ of his uncles would be in New York to look for him. He didn’t even have a timeline for how quickly he could act. At the very least, he knew the bakery was safe for a quick stop - there was no way they could get there faster than Alfred, who knew all the backstreets and shortcuts like the back of his hand - but it wouldn’t be for very long.

He had to get out. New York wasn’t safe for him anymore.

He slipped into the residential path that led to the back of the storefront, and snuck into the building. He couldn’t risk going in the front and having someone see him. The last time Adam had “officially” seen him was when he’d been sent off with a basket of deliveries.

He was glad, once he’d reached his room, that he’d drawn the curtains this morning. There was no way to tell that anyone was inside if there wasn’t a candle to backlight them. He changed quickly into a sturdy travel dress, exchanging normal day shoes for heavier, better quality boots. He grabbed the prepared travel kit at the back of the wardrobe, already stocked with a change of clothes, basic necessities, and enough currency to travel without a problem.

Everything he could get from his room was taken care of. That done, he closed his eyes, tugging at the magic inside him - that lingering gift from his mother - that allowed him to shift his appearance. He felt it rustle through his hair, darkening it gently before he retied it and warming his skin as it paled from his normal tan. Tiny changes, no time for something more significant, but enough that if someone he knew looked at him on the streets, they wouldn’t immediately recognize Eliza Chase, the baker’s daughter.

Even though his eyes never changed.

Footsteps were coming up from the bakery, he realized as his eyes snapped open. Time was up.

“Eliza,” the baker’s relieved voice echoed through the small room, and he turned to face the warm-eyed man, who’d paused the moment he’d crossed the threshold to take in his ‘daughter,’ and the light travel pack assembled at her side. He inhaled, sharply. “They’ve found you.”

“Yes,” his voice was shaky and choked. He knew they’d planned for this, but it’d been  _ years _ , and he’d fooled his family by hiding right under their noses. It still hurt, to have to leave. “They know.”

Adam Chase exhaled slowly, and then nodded. “Protocol?”

“Already set in motion,” he responded, which was the truth. He’d dropped off the letter for Kassidy the moment he’d been exposed, which only left the ones for Hamilton and Peggy, only one of which he could carry safely. “I’ll take care of the other one, but you’ll - .”

“I know. I’ll send it.”

After a breath of silence, of simply staring at each other for a long moment where they both couldn’t quite believe this was happening, Adam finally sprang into motion. He bolted into the kitchen, where he wrapped up a loaf of bread and several savories, tucking away a small round of cheese in the bundle. Alfred strapped on his hidden knives, weaseling out the hidden letter - prewritten as per protocol - from a notch in the counter and tucking it into his inner breast pocket. He reversed his travel coat so it wouldn’t draw suspicion until he could get close enough to the border for someone to smuggle him out. He wrapped a pale yellow handkerchief around his hair and tied it off at the base of his chignon.

The yellow handkerchief would signal to all of Washington’s watchers that he was being extracted. At the very least, if he was caught, George would  _ know. _

Finally, they turned back to each other. Alfred tucked the bundle of food into his travel pack, settling it at his side.

“Go on then, darling,” Adam said, clasping the hands of his would-be daughter tightly, knowing the likelihood of ever seeing him again was slim. “I’ll send off the letter to Ms. Schuyler, and you’ll post the one to Peggy on your way out. But you  _ must _ get out. You know they’ll be on their way here as soon as they realize.”

Alfred’s eyes were teary, “I’ll miss you,” he said softly, to the man who’d been like family to him when his own family had pushed him away, “You’ll take care? They’ll be watching you now.” Watching at best, he knew. But Alfred had taken precautions - with the man’s permission - to keep Adam Chase safe from his family, though he’d desperately hoped these events would never come to pass. With luck, he wouldn’t need them. But if he did… the baker would be safe.

It was the least Alfred could do, for the man who’d done so much for him.

Adam nodded firmly, “Give my best to the General,” he whispered, bringing him into a bear hug, “And safe travels. Now  _ go _ .”

And Alfred did.


	7. And just for fun: the Epilogue (Spring, 1780)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize in advance, but that requires regret :)

**Continental Army Base, Valley Forge, 1 week after Alfred’s departure**

General Washington frowned as he reached the commotion of the main camp. He’d been looking all about for his aide - he’d even asked a few of the officers lingering around - but it seemed that no one had a clue of where Alexander Hamilton had gone off to. Alexander was not particularly obedient to anyone he didn’t respect, but George had long since earned his loyalty, and it was unusual for the young man to vanish without telling the General where he was going.

When he finally found someone who was able to tell where Alexander had gone, it didn’t help.

“You’re sure?” he inquired, frowning.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” the soldier said, “A pair of scouts had encountered a lone traveler, who identified themselves as one of your spies, and handed over their identification codes. One of the scouts reported the incident to Hamilton, as protocol dictated, and Hamilton said he would go verify them before reporting back to you, sir.”

The General frowned, “How long ago did this occur?” He’d been looking for his aide for what had seemed like hours.

The soldier hesitated, “A few hours ago, sir.”

And Alexander hadn’t reported back yet?

He straightened, smoothing out the frown on his face, “Show me where they went.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

**.**

He’d walked a good twenty minutes past the sentry line around camp when he finally heard his aide’s familiar voice. Thankfully, they were in the woods - hidden enough from the main road, but far enough from camp that their conversation was private - but then again, the General knew his aide could be circumspect.

He then thought about the drunken riot Alexander had started with his little band of merry men in a tavern shortly after arriving in New York, advocating for American independence, and winced.

_When he put his mind to it, that is._

He slipped closer, intentionally minding his steps. If Alexander had wanted to meet with a spy _without_ informing the General, then George wanted to know _why_ before he did anything else.

“ - and I’ve had to intercept just about everything!” he heard Alexander grumble, audibly frustrated, “Every spy we had in the area was in a bloody panic. All _four of them_ , in one place, looking for your cover. It was lucky that he got a letter to Eliza so quickly, or I wouldn’t have heard about any of it before the reports started coming in.” There was a pause. “And what in God’s name did you say to Ms. Ward? She was half hysterical in her letter.”

The other person - the spy presumably - said something, too quiet for George to hear, but obviously meant something to Alexander, who sighed.

“She’ll be alright. I’m just worried about how we’re going to tell the General.” Said General’s ears perked up, and his eyes narrowed. What did _that_ mean?

The spy’s voice came again, too soft for George to pick up on the words, but the concerned tone conveyed a lot. He snuck closer, curling a gloved hand around the hefty bough of one of the trees ringing the clearing. It was all that concealed him from the pair.

Alex sighed again, “I know, I’ve been trying to keep his stress level down,” he admitted quietly, startling the listening General. “It’s been growing _constantly_ , and Congress does _not_ help with their insistent orders and the lack of understanding. I’ve been waiting for you to get here so we could break the news to him gently. I don’t know if he can handle another of your heart attacks, Alfred.”

_Alfred?!_

Finally close enough to the pair, he heard a familiar voice huff, “If we’re lucky, the fact that I’m _here_ will alleviate most of it.”

George pushed down the spike of panic that raced through him. That was _definitely_ Alfred. And what could’ve prompted the young nation-to-be to break cover when he’d been so firmly established in New York, and not due for a report for another two months...he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

But this was his nation. This was _Alfred,_ who he’d only allowed into their operations at all because he’d proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one would find him when he was away from George and Gilbert’s keen eyes. Alfred, who would risk himself for his people in a heartbeat, who George couldn’t bear the thought of being caught. Of being stifled and stripped of the young man he was becoming away from the British Empire’s possessive grasp. He needed to know.

“It was close enough as it was,” Alfred added quietly, just barely audible to the eavesdropping General, “I think if Arthur hadn’t been quite so surprised by what I was saying, he would’ve reacted quicker. He already had me in a corner...there was every chance they would’ve extracted me without anyone being aware of it. And Adam doesn’t know how to contact you - he was very clear on that.”

Alexander made an uncharacteristically high pitched groan, “Maybe,” he...the General blinked, he could’ve sworn that his aide had just _squeaked,_ “don’t tell the General that.”

Well...that was as good a cue as any.

He stepped out into the clearing.

Life, it seemed, had an interesting sense of humor. He ended up stepping out right behind his increasingly flustered and irate aide. Who, he noted with the corner of his lip quirking up in amusement, was directly opposite a travel-worn Alfred.

He looked good, the paternal side of him - the one he hadn’t known he’d possessed until he’d met his too-young nation-to-be - noted in sheer relief. Far better then he would’ve expected based on what little he’d pulled together from Alex’s mini-rant. He looked tired, lined with faint hints of stress, but he was mostly clean and pulled together. And still, he noted, in a dress.

It was sad to consider that even if the redcoats knew that they were on the search for a woman, women would _still_ be less conspicuous than a young man of conscription age trying to flee one of the most well-guarded British occupied cities.

Likely as not, Alfred would’ve had the opportunity to stop at a nearby inn - possibly to keep the cover of a travelling young woman ironclad. Women were far more likely to trust the inn when possible, rather than risk the roads with the chances of bandits and ill-reputed rogues bandying about. It was also probably why it had taken Alfred more than a few days to make the journey; precautionary measures could rarely go awry. His hair had gone several shades darker than the General knew Miss Elizabeth Chase’s to be, and his travel dress was worn, but to those who knew him well it was obvious.

The truth was in his eyes.

Wide eyes, blue like the sky, tired, and staring straight at him.

_My,_ he thought with a flare of well deserved amusement, _I didn’t realize just how wide his eyes could go._

Were they anywhere else, George considered, Alfred would’ve been gaping. Something it seemed, he thought with ever increasing hilarity, that his usually observant aide had yet to pick up on.

As if he’d been waiting for a heaven sent sign, Alexander began to speak again, musing, “Maybe don’t mention the four of them either,” not noticing the way Alfred’s eyes grew wider as they moved from the General, to Hamilton, and then back again. “We could ease him into it. Hmm…”

“Alex,”

“Just a second, Alfred,” his aide waved away the interruption, “I’ve got an idea forming.”

“Seriously Alex,”

Alexander snapped his fingers, posture switching in a second to the _Aha!_ of realization that the General was quite familiar with. “I’ve got it! We won’t mention the encounter yet,” he said, cheerful now that a feasible idea had come to him, ignorant of the way Alfred was staring at him incredulously, and tossing looks over his shoulder to the imposing, highly amused General standing only feet behind his oblivious aide, “We’ll start with the increased surveillance after your tenure at the Ward’s house and bring up the encounter on the quay as a near miss. No need to mention the exact specifics about the battalion they’ve got out hunting you just yet. Give it a few days, and then we can give him the specifics of how you got _nearly_ caught - Alfred? Alfred, why are you looking at me like that?”

The General cleared his throat.

Alexander Hamilton froze, watching as Alfred buried his red face into his hands and _breathed._ He swallowed hard, and then said, “He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”

The General’s smile was sharp, and Alfred was rather grateful Alexander couldn’t see it. “He is,” the man himself said dryly, tapping down on the amusement as his aid whirled around to face him. “And _he_ would like a _full report,_ Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”

Alex whimpered, “Yes sir.”

**.**

The entire camp froze at the sound of their modern major general bellowing a loud, furious, “YOU WERE _WHAT?!”_ and eyed each other warily. That did not bode well.

**.**

**New York City, 2 days after Alfred’s departure**

Poisonous green eyes looked up as Alistair re-entered the room, and he forced himself to relax when he felt the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

“Any news?” Arthur’s voice was soft and deadly, daring the Scotsman to deny him, and Alistair silently cursed his nephew’s efficiency. Whatever he’d said to Arthur in those precious minutes the two had been alone, it had been like setting off sparklers under a dragon’s tail. Only, instead of fire and fury, there was an almost simmering toxicity that burned only barely at bay behind poisonous verdant eyes.

Alistair shook his head, “No sign of him,” he sighed with heavy regret, carefully not wincing when the atmosphere around them all grew heavy. “None of the patrols saw him, and none of the checkpoints have a record of an Elizabeth Chase leaving the city. Nor anyone of that description.”

Arthur’s lips thinned and curled back at the corner, baring the edge of a snarl that would’ve set their teeth on edge had he given voice to it, “And the baker?” he demanded. The baker who’d played the role of Alfred’s _father_ in this whole charade. To Alfred’s overly possessive _blood_ father… the insult was almost unforgivable.

Rustling behind him stopped him from opening his mouth to damn the poor bastard who’d gotten in the middle of this cold war between his brother and nephew, and he threw a glance over his shoulder in time to see Rhys step from behind him into the room, resting a hand on his shoulder. Cool hazel glanced at him and then away, focusing on drawing their youngest brother’s attention to him.

“Rhys?”

The eldest of their quartet cleared his throat, “I found traces of magic on the baker,” he announced almost blithely, “When I spoke with him about his daughter’s whereabouts, he genuinely believed she was on her way to help her mother up in Boston. He seemed to have no knowledge of Alfred’s deception.”

Alistair blinked, “That’s not possible,” he murmured, contemplative. All the records they’d dug into over the last two weeks had indicated that until almost six years ago, Adam and Rebecca Chase hadn’t had any children. And then, out of nowhere, a daughter had appeared in their records, referred to fondly by her grandparents and all her father’s friends and extended family. Elizabeth Chase had entered into the world with a seamless grace, utterly unquestioned, and carved out a place for herself.

The brothers had a _lot_ of questions for their nephew. Perhaps the foremost one being _how the everloving fuck -?_

Given that Alfred had still been living under Arthur’s auspicious guardianship six years ago upon Eliza Chase’s debut, it was an entirely valid question.

But the only way Elizabeth Chase could’ve come into being so seamlessly was with her family’s support. The mother and her family were staunch patriots - he highly doubted they would’ve spared much thought to a personal request from General Washington himself. But Adam Chase was a quiet loyalist, from a wealthy British merchant family, and best friends with Richard Ward, who’s loyalty no one with any insight into the shifting political dynamics of New York would ever question. His loyalty to his nation had been what had driven his marriage to shambles, causing the pair to separate. His friendship with Ward had earned a lot of enemies from the quiet patriot base in the city, and in neighboring New Jersey. He’d been a pillar of the New York loyalist community; his bakery long a favorite of the wealthy upper class and overseas elite alike. It had been how Elizabeth Chase had been welcomed so seamlessly into the loyalist ranks, and had become a pillar for them in her own right.

How on Earth could they have convinced _this man,_ of all people, to support a patriot spy posing as his daughter?

Rhys’s voice was gentle, but authoritative, “I believe it’s a form of protection,” he said, “A gift, perhaps. Alfred knew he would come under scrutiny once he was discovered, though he must’ve hoped it would never come to pass. The read I could get on the magics lingering on the baker focused on memory. He truly believes he has a daughter, who’s gone up to her mother’s home. He has no knowledge of Alfred.”

The noise that came from Arthur’s throat was equal parts prideful and _wrecked._ Arthur had been the one who specialized in mental magics, after all. Manipulation and gentle persuasion, charms and coaxing and _convincing_ people was his domain. And though he’d never risked teaching Alfred, it wasn’t hard to learn from _centuries_ worth of observations.

“You’re _sure,_ Rhys?”

“Completely.” And as the only one of the four of them who’d been fully trained by their mother before her untimely fading, there was no disputing Rhys’s assessment. No matter how much Alistair was sure Arthur _wanted_ to.

_A gift,_ Rhys had called it. And truly, there was no other way to describe it. In one move, Alfred had declawed them. He’d spared the one man left behind, who would’ve taken the fall for housing the little rebel spy. Who had no _memory_ of said rebel spy, only a dutiful daughter whom he’d loved dearly.

Arthur _couldn’t touch him._ Not without having to answer to the court of public opinion; not without outing Alfred completely for who he was - and risk the chance that many people just wouldn’t believe him. Elizabeth Chase had been beloved by those who knew her, and had allies in the city high and low. One man’s voice - even that of an Admiral - would be hard pressed to bring her down so low.

A masterstroke, to keep the game alive without a loss to sustain it. Was it any wonder that Arthur was so indescribably _livid?_

If it was that alone that had Arthur so enraged, perhaps it would’ve set his mind at ease. But there was something else plaguing his brother, something insidious and monstrous that had grown and swollen the longer it took them to find even the barest traces of where Alfred might’ve gone.

Something terrifying brewed behind those poisoned verdant orbs, and Alistair feared victory might not be enough to quench it.

What had happened, in those minutes no one bore witness to, for the shadows of Rome to reappear in the conqueror’s eyes?

Arthur stood then, turning to them, and Alistair had to swallow down his fear with a curse. His little brother’s eyes were _lethal._

“Smoke him out,” Arthur said, voice deadly soft, “I don’t care how many men it takes. I don’t care about the time, I don’t care about the effort or the manpower or the drain on our resources. I want every Elizabeth Chase dragged out, all his little rabbit holes filled in, every safe haven he has burned through. I want there to be no escape.”

Arthur stood ramrod straight, green eyes aglow with a simmering fury that stirred up dread deep within Alistair because he knew it wouldn’t be appeased as easily as winning this war. The aura, heavy and toxic, was so thick he almost couldn’t breathe. Rhys and Reilley were stiff and frozen at his side, Rhys’s hazel eyes inscrutable while Reilley’s leaf green were filled with fear.

It had been a long time since they’d truly feared their little brother. But then again… this wasn’t _quite_ their little brother. It was Arthur, sanitized of his humanity; shorn of all the warmth and the emotions that his family once brought out in him. It was an Arthur made from the broken shell of a thrown-away conquest, filled with all the nastiest parts of him, all his sharp edges with over a _millenia_ of fury and seething drive pushing him onwards.

“He will not run from me anymore. He will have nowhere left to hide,” the British Empire declared quietly, a proclamation that grit and hissed against his bones like the chains they truly were, “I will not allow it.”

It felt like the world went still.

“Find him.”

**.**

_“If you will deny me my son, if you refuse me the right to be your father, to care and keep you safe as I have...then you will simply be_ **_mine_ ** _instead. And you will_ **_know_ ** _the difference.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~1812 anyone?~~ Well, that went dark pretty quickly. Whoops.
> 
> Come find me @emeraldsage98 on tumblr, I give snippets, answer asks, and ~~leak potential sequels shhhh~~

**Author's Note:**

> UK Brothers (in order of appearance):
> 
> Arthur Kirkland - England/British Empire (youngest)  
> Rhys Kirkland - Wales (eldest)  
> Alistair Kirkland - Scotland (second eldest)  
> Reilley Kirkland - Northern Ireland (second youngest)


End file.
